


Good Raven

by Midnight1990



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Content, Angst, Borgin and Burkes (Harry Potter), Canon Compliant, Class Differences, Coming of Age, Death Eater Recruitment, Death Eaters, Father-Daughter Relationship, Female Anti-Hero, Graphic Description, Gritty, Knockturn Alley, Magical Creatures, Malfoy Manor (Harry Potter), POV Alternating, Potions, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Second War with Voldemort, Slow Build, Slytherin, The Dark Arts (Harry Potter), Welsh Character, Werewolf, Wizarding Culture (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28986786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnight1990/pseuds/Midnight1990
Summary: Summer, 1995; some are saying Voldemort is back — others say no, it's only a rumor. For Branda Burke, a newly graduated Slytherin, a more pressing matter is finding a home for herself and her four siblings — away from Knockturn Alley and her cruel uncle. After meeting Lucius Malfoy, the elder wizard becomes intrigued by Branda, becoming a much needed benefactor, giving her money and gifts for her siblings. Abandoned by her mother and missing her father, a vulnerable Branda welcomes the attention given her by Malfoy and his associates, who slowly groom her into a potential recruit — as a Death Eater.*** Recruitment patterns — from “Handbook on Children Recruited and Exploited by Terrorist and Violent Extremist Groups” (c) “Infection”: when the target population is difficult to reach, an “agent” can be inserted to pursue recruitment from within, employing direct and personal appeals. The social bonds between the recruiter and the targets may be strengthened by appealing to grievances, such as marginalization or social frustration. — Scott Gerwehr and Sara Daly, “Al-Qaida: terrorist selection and recruitment” (Santa Monica, California, RAND Corporation, 2006), pp. 76-80. ***
Relationships: Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Kudos: 5





	1. Cofio - Remembering

_July, 1995_

As I unpack my trunk in the dusty, dingy room above the shop where my uncle, two brothers and two sisters live, I feel the slight dread of not knowing where my future will lead.

I’m of age now and done with school, so finding work and avoiding trouble should be my first worries, but it ain’t just me I have to worry about. I can’t let the _babanod_ grow up here for much longer — it’s eaten them and me for three years already.

We live in Knockturn Alley, the street off of lovely Diagon Alley where all of the things your decent witches and wizards won’t meddle in are sold; bought; traded or just plain found. In my uncle’s shop is sold potion ingredients, and because this is Knockturn Alley, they’re not normal ingredients: poisons; live creatures; contraband that he (Uncle) said if I ever told someone about he’d hex me for 7 years straight. He also threatened to feed me on only cold gruel if I sold anything cheap, ‘cause once I was all moved in those three years ago he was leaving me at the counter to haggle and sell while he went off to the Cauldron for drinks, or Borgin’s to try and buy even more nasty supplies to bring back to his own business.

I should be honest when I talk about the things we sell - they’re rather compelling. It’s a bit exciting to know that the fungi you’re holding (with a handkerchief that’s been charmed to keep the nerves in your hand from suddenly burning and losing all function) are one: that bloody dangerous and two: can put you on the ministry’s list of “Most Dark and Dangerous in Illicit Magical Trade”. Some of the things that the Ministry comes up with!

As interesting as my uncle’s business can be, me and the kids need our own place to live. It’s just too... well... _dark_ in this alley. 99 percent of the people who come through this place are just trying to get their business done; do their shopping — however ill-intentioned it may be — and go home, but that one percent that’s not so good is too noticeable for any decent body to want to raise four little ones here. I’ve been followed by a hag who wanted my fingernails (taken from a living witch or wizard, they’re more useful); groped by warlocks both drunken and sober; sang at by more drunken warlocks (some ditty with lyrics like “I once had a lass with a nice round ass” and it got even nastier) and I’ve even seen duels that ended up in the Prophet! One time, a curse missed its intended target and hit an old wizard who was just trying to get home with the flesh-eating slug repellent he’d bought! The poor old grandpa! I hope he lived.

I go into the smaller room across the hall where the boys sleep and of course Llon’s trunk is sitting wide open on the bed he and Afon, who’s only three, share. I see his rumpled up belongings and I know he scrambled to find his wand as soon as he got up here; I hid it in his trunk as soon we boarded the train to come back for his first summer holiday (and the rest of my life) so he wouldn’t try any last minute jinxes. Sometimes I’m amazed at how easily he obeys me, then again his most vivid experience with a female relative other than me is of Mam throwing him outside at night - _all_ night - so she could drink and have a shag with that big warlock she came home with. He was nine, I was 15 and we were all lucky that it was spring holiday so’s I was home.

I don’t know how they found out, but when the ministry officials who deal with family problems came a’visiting two days later, I was able to convince them to let the kids remain at Mam’s house so long as I was allowed to be there, courtesy of the school and a satisfied ministry witch. I had to write and beg Snape, McGonagall and Dumbledore himself to let me skip a few weeks. I remember feeling quite touched when the first two came to visit, a ministry witch in tow. I don’t think Dumbledore even considers his students well-being outside of Hogwarts.

Professor Snape was my head of house — good ol’ Slytherins looking out for each other — and I distinctly recall the feeling I had when I greeted him and McGonagall at the door that he’d been waiting for something like this to occur. You get that feeling when he looks at you sometimes — that he _knows_ things about you. I had expected McGonagall to be much less kinder than she actually was — more grave and pitying. She was certainly that way with Mam — “Eira, what _have_ you gotten yourself and your family into?!”

Snape mostly sat all stiff in the chair I’d offered, his spidery black eyes glancing everywhere they could, taking in my raggedy siblings, Mam’s wan expression and the Welsh words doodled haphazardly on our cottage’s stone walls. Words like _cariad, ‘_ love’ which had a bright pink heart drawn beside it and _calon_ which had an arrow pointing from it to the rosy heart.

Witch, Welsh and Slytherin. That’s me. Even my name is Welsh, though my dad is English (obviously, my surname is Burke after all). Branda — _brân dda_ — raven good; Good Raven. I have a middle name that isn’t Welsh at all, though — Patreva. Something Latin like what so many of our kind in Britain have — names like Draco, Severus or my tad’s name, “Nicander” which may actually be Greek. It’s fancy and magical sounding. I’m the only one of my parent’s brood with any name like that — something about a Naming Seer who suggested it for me, but they never went back for their other four kids’s names. The younger ones have a Welsh name and that’s it. I like Welsh names quite a lot, though. Some of the names wizarding parents give their children are too — well — ‘ostentatious’ is a good word.

Anyway, McGonagall, Snape and the quiet little ministry witch with the clipboard came to a decision; I could stay at home with Mam and the kids while the school year continued as long as, one — Mam wasn’t bringing her “gentlemen friends” home anymore and two — I would take remedial lessons in all core classes the following school year.

“Of course, you will receive some lessons by post this spring and over the summer, miss Burke.” McGonagall can be so caring, sometimes.

“Your head of house has stated that you are among the more reliable students at Hogwarts, miss Burke.”

The little ministry witch hadn’t spoken at all to me, only to Mam and to my professors, but now she was gazing at me with what I believe was meant to be a placating - if somewhat sharp — look.

“He says you are quite skilled in his potions class as well as in mentoring the younger students.”

The look on Professor Snape’s face suggested this was meant to be unspoken. I’ve never had problems with Snape; he’s certainly a terror to many (okay, most) students, but he’s only ever had clipped praises or short orders for me to teach the first years how to behave without their parents around to guide them and comfort them and all that. A lot of the prefects were shite at that kind of thing.

Life at Mam’s with the kids was alright for awhile - could’ve probably gone quite tolerably if she hadn’t gone off to the Leakey Cauldron and met some bloke who took her to his flat in wherever-the-hell-it-was. Whatever they did in those six days she was gone, it was bad enough that he went to Azkaban, but not interesting enough for the Daily Prophet to report on. Mam got off, but us kids had to go live with the only relative who was willing to take us — Tad’s second-or-something cousin whom he’d done business with before Mam kicked him out: Mr. Donius Burke, purveyor of dark and illicit potion ingredients since 1974.

Fuck.


	2. Ingredi-wizards

“Oi, girl! Come down here now! I need you for something!”

Calm down old man, I haven’t finished folding my jumpers yet. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s already got a task for me, even though I’ve only been off the train for two hours. Sunset’s nearly come, and I don’t want to be outside in Knockturn Alley after dark, which ought to spur me faster down the stairs to see what he wants. Making him wait can feel too good though - not that he’s not willing to stomp his way up here which, as I put my last woolen top away, I can hear him doing. Thump, creak; thump creak; the ancient wooden steps groaning loudly as always. Has he still not fallen through them?!

“Are you going deaf?!”

I turn my head to look at him there, his reedy frame silhouetted from the dim light of the hallway. He hasn’t changed in the ten months since I’ve last seen him, and he hasn’t since we arrived here three years ago; grey hair slicked back, his aging face freakishly smooth without a hint of stubble (does he shave, or did he magic the hairs off?).

Before I can say anything he’s stepped into the room to stand over me.

“Get down there, now!”

He points his finger so forcefully that it’s curving up towards the ceiling, and I have to keep myself from glancing up to see if it’ll confuse him. He follows me out of the bedroom and down to the back of the shop, where Llon and the other two kids are on the floor playing with Mouser, the cranky black cat we keep to eat any mice or cockroaches in the the building.

Gwenyn is nine and has long blonde hair like Mam, round hazel eyes and a pink mischievous face. Next to her is five year-old Ffionwyn, who’s brown hair will turn nearly black like Tad’s and mine someday. For now, her head’s as shiny as a chestnut, with a pale face and a shifty quietness about her - probably because she’s been growing up in this dark hole of a place.

“Here”. A small roll of parchment is pressed into my hand.

“Take this to Aunt Onyxia, she’s been expecting it all day.”

He nods his head towards the children - “You can bring back the other one, as well.”

Of course, he’s talking about Afon, the youngest of the family. Three, dark haired and quiet like Ffionwyn, he had to come here when he was just four months old! Unwilling to keep a baby where his customers could hear him crying, Uncle struck a deal with the ministry officials who’d arranged for his guardianship — he would have to remain the legal guardian of Afon, but would be allowed to shunt him off to another adult so long as they were nearby and had no criminal record — a relative preferred. Enter Aunt Onyxia, Uncle Donius’s first cousin.

Onyxia Burke runs a “gift” shop right at the end of Knockturn Alley where she sells candles, cheap jewelry and clothing items, all of which are enchanted for various purposes; making someone fall in love with you; manipulating another’s dreams; even changing their moods or emotions. I hope she’s been keeping Afon away from her shit.

As I step through the door of my uncle’s shop into the balmy night air, I glance up at the old wooden sign hanging above the door: “Apothecary” it reads, surrounded by engraved bats, spiders and toads. I force a heavy breath through my nose as memories come creeping up again, for we used to sell those things — well, Mam ‘n Tad did - before everything went to Hell.

Mam ‘n Tad were gatherers and procurers of potion ingredients. Magical plants and animals, of course, some of which you must have a special permit to collect, but also things that are not so magical — bats, rats and adders; green things that grow in your back garden like nettles and dandelions; even farm animals like chickens and goats, the latter of which produce bezoars —hard stones that form in their gut and which counteract poisons.

Things that could not be grown or raised near our home (a dragon in the barn might’ve been a bit troublesome) we would search for. This was the best part of my family’s livelihood. Tad would research where things could be found, and we would gather our equipment and head off to some chosen spot ready to work.

He taught me to do many things without magic, which I never knew was unusual for our kind —until I went to Hogwarts. Nobody else knew how to butcher a chicken or start a fire without a wand (except maybe a few muggleborns, but even most of _them_ didn’t know how, either)! My classmates didn’t seem to know what to make of me until the incident with Hagrid’s giant chicken.

One of Hagrid’s roosters had grown to a rather impressive size, comparable to that of a Shetland pony (he had to have charmed it somehow). Well, one day it managed to escape the coop and terrorize the courtyard where all of us first years were learning broom maintenance. Madam Hooch was knocked over before she even saw it, and a boy called Derrick attempted to scare it by kicking it away, his robed arms flapping all around him whilst yelling at it to go away. Unfortunately, Drumsticks now thought Derrick was trying to start a real cock-fight — chest to chest, wings flapping and spurs kicking!

Before it finished its little war-dance with his head bobbing low, neck-feathers puffed out trembling, I’d managed to grab one of the brooms off the work table; as soon as Drumsticks began to step towards Derrick I ran towards that overgrown alarm-clock and jabbed it as hard as I could with that broomstick!

I won’t say it was a smart idea, but the frustration I’d felt over those first weeks at school — people giggling behind their hands when I spoke in my Welsh accent; discovering that students in other houses whom I’d wanted to befriend would scoff at the idea of hanging around with a _Slytherin_ — seemed to take hold of me. It felt good when the broom’s handle hit Drumsticks’ chest, shocking him backwards and confusing him so. It’s likely a good thing that Hooch had finally recovered herself enough to properly stun that scaly-footed bastard before I’d lost my mind completely — that broomstick was starting to feel like a skewer.

Dinner that evening consisted of a hearty chicken soup, platters of little chicken pies, mashed potatoes, boiled peas and fresh, steamy bread rolls on the side.

Oh, and most everyone in my year stopped calling me “Spleens”.

Tad had been bi— Tad had been given the boot by Mam by the the time I’d started school, and in the summers I’d been the one to continue most of the hunting work while Mam settled herself with tending the garden and foraging for plants. Mam knew the work alright, but she’d mainly been the one to keep records of what was brought home; researching the markets and packaging items properly. Didn’t take long for Tad’s absence to start its work on her though, did it? A little kid can only hunt so many kinds of creatures, and of course I couldn’t have a permit to collect things like doxy venom or dragon eggshells, nor could I travel more than a few miles from home.

Soon the goats were sold to another ingredi-wizard, then any magical plants in our garden that required consistent tending died. I didn’t understand how that could’ve happened, not at the time anyway. Mam was good at hiding her drinking back then. Since we were no longer able to provide the great amount of products as before, businesses started abandoning us for more reliable resources.

Sometimes — just every once in awhile — Tad would show up for a visit.

“ _Only a few days_ ” I imagine Mam whispering harshly, fearfully, her eyes darting ‘round as though expecting whatever forces demanded they keep apart to come bursting out of her cottage’s walls.

He always went out to try and gather more for us to sell, did Tad. He didn’t take me anywhere with him that was outside of the county, though. The last time I went with him was at the beginning of summer after my third year at Hogwarts. He looked so much older than I’d remembered, or perhaps I hadn’t paid enough attention during his previous visits? Grey streaks were beginning to shoot through his thick black hair, which hadn’t been cut in years. He walked slower than I was used to, moving like his body had turned all sore and stiff; his head constantly swiveled around as we worked, as though the very land that surrounded us could not be trusted.

“Don’t let your sisters and your brother stay inside all day. Teach them how to look after themselves, better than your mam or I have done for ourselves”.

Until he said that, it hadn’t really occurred to me just how reckless my parents were compared to those of my classmates. Before Tad had been forced to leave, he and Mam had thought little of hauling me, toddling Llon and squalling Gwenyn to all kinds of strange and exciting places — places I now know where most parents wouldn’t allow their children to set foot. When they needed to collect dragon eggshells from high up in the mountains, us kids sometimes went along.

I learned where to find snakes before I was seven; how to untangle wire snares without slicing my wrist open when I was eight. I nearly drowned in a lake searching for plimpys — round little creatures with long legs you can tie together — Tad said that’s how Merpeople deal with them because they consider them pests.

My parents also enjoyed firewhiskey. Many times after we’d spent a long day trekking through bracken for mokes and doxy eggs, or slogging around in muddy ditches for flobberworms, Mam ‘n Tad would build up a fire. We would toast sausages, slices of bread and even apples for supper, while two of them added the throat-burning drink to their meal. I can’t recall the bottle ever not being empty the next morning.

The drinking didn’t interfere with much until after Tad was gone.

It’s a wonder all of us kids have lived to see three.

I worry Afon won’t recognize me, after I’ve stayed all year at Hogwarts instead of returning to the Alley during holidays. I know I have a responsibility to my siblings, but the Triwizard tournament and its accompanying delights were hard to resist. Uncle was furious when I refused to return to work at Christmas, while Onyxia wrote that I should try and catch a wealthy boy from Beauxbatons, though a Durmstranger would do.

By the time I make it to Onyxia’s front door the few glass street lamps holding charmed candles have sprung to life, casting faint and eerie shadows. I’ve only just touched the brass kneazle-head knocker when the door is wrenched open from behind.

“It’s about time - oh, Patreva! I hadn’t realized you’d returned already!”

I curl my lips into the sparest of smiles — it’s often a struggle to remain polite with this woman. _Patreva_ is my middle name, not my real name. I don’t even know what it means, and Mam ‘n Tad always avoided using it.

“ _Noswaith dda, Modryb. Sut ydych chi_?”

The pleasure I feel when I speak Welsh at Onyxia is the same as ever: sweet but all too bloody short.

“ _Patreva Burke_! You know far better than to speak that way, to me!”

As if she understood a word I’ve just said?! She’s convinced that any language other than French or Latin is used to disparage her.

“Llon and I came back a few hours ago, Auntie. Uncle Donius sent me to give you this” - I hand her the roll of parchment - “and to take Afon back with me”.

Onyxia stares at the parchment in her hand, eyes narrowing in obvious displeasure.

“Did he send me no money, girl?”

Uh-oh

“I haven’t stolen it, if that’s what you’re thinking!”

Her eyes have gotten even narrower, if that’s possible.

“No, no girl. I suppose...I should’ve expected as much...this time.”

She isn’t looking at me as she says this, rather she’s gazing nowhere in particular at the space behind me, as if suddenly lost in thought...

“Well, wait here a moment, then. Here’s the boy’s belongings.” Before shuffling down her entryway she reaches down and hands me a midsized bag filled with clothes, children’s medicines and very few toys. No tea to be had in her house, apparently. Rude sow.

“Here you are, girl.” Onyxia appears at the door with my youngest brother in tow, his eyes widening at the sight of me and his fist going to his mouth in an image of absolute preciousness.

“Oooh _fy mach i! Fy mrawd cy-“_

“Speak English to him!” Shrieks the old hag I am forced to respect. “I had to teach him prop—“

But I’m not staying for her xenophobic rant tonight, and neither is _fy mrawd bach_ — my little brother. He’s had enough, and I’ve had enough.

“Goodnight Auntie! Thank you for taking care of him, we need to go back!”

And with that, Afon and I are trotting up the alleyway and into the warm summer night.

Well, I’m trotting; Afon’s on my back.


	3. Mr. Malfoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The apothecary receives an important visitor...

Cracking eggs into the pan, I wonder how my plans will flesh out in the following months: make money, find a home away from this place, and find Tad. I’ll have to prove to the ministry officials that I’m capable of raising my siblings without the other Burkes. Perhaps I’ll finally get a license to collect dangerous ingredients for the shop...strike a deal with Uncle Donius and keep a percentage of the profits. If there’s something in it for him, then he should be amenable. I could peddle on the side as well, though that would surely lead to the black market in non-tradable substances. If I’m caught doing that, I’ll never get the kids.

A crisp snap of the newspaper breaks through my thoughts, and just as well — the sausages are beginning to smoke. I plate up our morning meal and set the coffee on the table (he makes his tea when he wakes up). As I tuck into fried eggs and buttery toast, I consider asking now about my plan...the money part, not the contacting-my-dad part. He seems content this morning; he hasn’t cursed at me nor complained grumpily of any goings-on in the world, his usual morning routine. I suppose this is as good of a chance as I’ll ever get.

“Uncle, I was wondering if I could talk to you about something....?”

He grants me a momentary glance of his iron-colored eyes, deciding if he wants to engage or not.

“I suppose. What is it?”

I nonchalantly begin cutting up my sausages.

“Well, since I’m done with school, I think it’s definitely time for me to start making my own money, so that I can eventually find a flat — and hopefully take the kids off your hands.”

He’s put his paper down and seems to be considering my words, his eyes going from me to that place in the air people look at when they’re thinking.

“I’m glad to hear you’re looking ahead, but how exactly are you going to earn this money?”

This is the part I’m most worried about...

“I’m not totally sure. I’ve been wondering about getting a license to gather more ingredients than just wolf’s bane or nettles. Maybe I can find a job nearby, possibly two. I’m still thinking of options.”

He finally puts his paper aside and begins to tuck in. “Keep that train of thought. I need to talk to you about some things anyway, so we’ll have this conversation tonight after work.”

And that’s that, for now.

Of course I considered my career options in school with Snape, but it was never a question of whether I’d go straight towards my own future or stay behind to raise my brothers and sisters. Family comes first, but the Slytherin in me is still scheming and plotting. How can I get what I want, and take care of the others at the same time?

By the time we’ve both emptied our plates, Ffionwyn and Afon trudge groggily into the kitchen. The younger they are, the earlier they rise.

“Right. I’m opening up.” And with that, Uncle Donius straightens his robes and heads down the creaky stairs to begin the day.

***

Umf!  
The last crate of scarab beetles is placed atop the others. More crates containing fresh ingredients are stacked along the walls of the storeroom, just behind the front of the shop proper. The crates today come from abroad...  
North Africa and the Mediterranean, I think. Later I’ll unload them and put the ingredients in barrels and jars for display.

I turn to the shelves for my next tasks; they reach as high up as the ceiling, holding jars of eyeballs; insects; pickled entrails; phials containing various nectars and venoms. The more rare or expensive items like powdered silver or crushed gems are in a smaller room adjacent to this one, locked at all times. In the corners sit barrels filled with mooncalf dung, animal bones and mummified frogs. Chickens peck around the walled yard where two bezoar-goats reside. Other ingredients must be kept below in the dark cellar.

I need to refill the jars of dried salmon roe and powdered graphorn horn, the latter of which is one of our most expensive ingredients due to the danger of collecting it in the wild. I’m surprised the old man leaves this job to me — if I spill one gram it’ll be a disaster in his mind! I can already hear him “That’s one whole galleon more than you’re worth!” A single gram of powdered graphorn horn is worth one galleon, and right now I’m working with roughly 600! Maybe I should skive some off the top and —

But I don’t get to consider to whom I might sell a gram of powdered graphorn horn as the bell above the front door clangs loudly through the shop. Donius is tending the front, so I won’t have to serve whatever troll cross-breed needs attending to.

“Mr. Burke, I presume?” A man’s drawling, upper-class voice reaches my ears; probably not a troll look-alike...that voice actually sounds a mite familiar...

“I am, yes” I hear my uncle turn on his stool, then, “...Lucius Malfoy...? Why, I haven’t received your patronage in years, sir! To what do I owe this pleasure?!”

I haven’t heard him this excited since...never? My attention is caught as well, though. I know Malfoy — _Draco_ Malfoy — as I was one of his prefects for three years. Little snot; always needed more discipline.

“I’m in London on business today, and my manor’s potion stores are in need of resupplying. I’ve brought a list...” there’s the crisp rustle of a roll of parchment being pulled from a pocket...”of each ingredient as well as the amounts I desire.”

Lucius Malfoy speaks in a way that suggests he knows full-well who is in control of this exchange — him. In less than one minute my Uncle has gone from hectoring old scrote to obsequious toady.

There’s a few moments of paused silence as Uncle goes over the list.

“We’ve plenty of dragons’ blood, sir, but I’m currently awaiting a shipment for the creature’s bile, which should be here within the week. Shall I put your name down for it sir? I can assure you’ll be the first to receive your order sir!”

Good God, how many times must he call him “sir”? And on his own premises!

“That is acceptable, though I would prefer not to pay for the item before it arrives.”

“Certainly, sir! As for the rest, shall they be delivered to you later or...”

Mr. Malfoy’s cuts in with a rather cool reply, “Yes, of course. I’ve no intention of porting around such... _delicate_...supplies.”

He’s implying that my uncle expected he would carry his purchases with him like any common shopper, which I’ve gathered from his fine speech and dictating manner, he is not.

“Of course not sir! Of course not! What an idea!”

I’ve completely stopped filling the jar of salmon roe — I’ll probably never get to hear Uncle Donius humble himself in this way, and I want to enjoy every last second of it, even as it is making me cringe.

Mr. Malfoy drawls on, “I’ve time to spare before I’m expected at the ministry...I should like to observe each item, if you please...”

I expect this is the closest he ever gets to making a polite request.

“Not at all, sir! Girl!” He shouts through the wall, probably worried I’m dozing off at his moment of potential glory, but I don’t wait to answer him — this kind of business deal really is important.

“Aye?”

“Bring out the dragon’s blood, and quickly!”

“Which kind?” A dragon’s not just a dragon, after all!

“I said _dragon’s blood_!”

A frustrated sigh escapes me; if he’s going to sell such an important item to such a — supposedly — important wizard, shouldn’t he be more discerning? I shake the dust off my robes and walk closer to the doorway, mustering as respectful a tone as I can,

“No no Uncle, I meant”... I stick my neck around the doorframe to look earnestly in his face...”I meant what _kind_ of dragon’s blood? There’s opaleye, longhorn, vipertooth...”

“Dear me, I hadn’t remembered to check...a rare oversight on my part...”

There’s that lazy drawl again, though it now holds a note of curiosity. I finally get a look at Draco’s own tad. By Christ, they look exactly the same, except where Draco is still soft like a youth, his old man is hard and angled. On the whole, a lot more impressive than his son, who I’m sure imagines himself to be just as imposing. Mr. Malfoy’s pale eyes sweep over my face, silently taking me in before turning back to my uncle, a somewhat wicked glint in his previously cold eyes.

“Your recommendations, Mr. Burke?”

Uh-oh. He’s challenging him. I step into the front of the shop behind the counter, feeling responsible for putting my uncle on the spot.

“Beg pardon...I should’ve asked if you need it for general use, or in a more specific capacity. Most dragon’s blood can be used interchangeably, but some potions are best made with a particular species’ blood — sir.”

Malfoy’s cold, sharp eyes are now gazing at me, one eyebrow rising slightly. I’ve said _sir_ with deliberate — but still respectful — firmness; he is my elder, after all, besides occupying several stations above me. It’s hard to brush off centuries of convention, and my entire extended family are, by and large, traditionalists. I’m still not licking his boots, though.

Uncle clears his throat awkwardly, “yes... yes of course, I should’ve...”

But Mr. Malfoy doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to my uncle’s stammering apologies...

“Where is that accent from?” The corner of his mouth twitches — is he trying to keep from smirking? Well, there’s only one way to answer his question.

“ _Cymru_ , sir”.

“Ah, I thought it sounded... _Celtic_... how charming.”

There’s a certain rivalry between us Welsh wizards and our English counterparts. Primarily it has to do with Welsh language-use, the rest is friendly (usually) regional nonsense; national pride and all that. English is almost everyone’s first language in Wales, and many wizards born there don’t speak Welsh at all; they may not even have Welsh accents! But for wizarding families that have lived deep in the country for centuries, Welsh is still used on the daily. Back when Hogwarts was first built, Celtic languages like Irish and Welsh were still widely spoken, and students from those areas didn’t always know English...or French, which became important once the Normans came over in 1066. Those would be Malfoy’s ancestors; many of the old pureblood families are descended from the conquerors.

The problem now is that people still see nothing stupid about asking “why don’t you just speak English?” That’s an easy one; to annoy the English.

It’s funny where history likes to pop up, innit? Like at this very moment, but Mr. Malfoy is finished with his assessment of me...

“A generic variety will do for today. If I ever have need of a particular...strain...I will be sure to inquire here, first.”

Uncle finally manages to cut in, “honored, sir! We would be honored by your patronage in the future, sir! Here!” Uncle shoves the list of goods in my face, “Go back and gather these items... _carefully_!”

He grits his teeth on the last word — that’s how you know he’s truly embarrassed. Well, if he’d been more concerned with asking the usual questions instead of kissing someone’s arse...!

I keep my mouth shut and go back to the storeroom. I have more pressing things to attend to than sniping back at Arse-licker, like getting through Malfoy’s list without making a mistake. Ever since I came to live here, my eyesight has gone funny. It became less strained during school, but this last year my eyes kept blurring the words in my books and class-notes. No one in my family but the elderly have ever needed glasses, so I’m not sure where I got it from, but if it gets any worse, I’ll have to buy a pair.

Written on the list are five ingredients, which is five too many to become low on...in my opinion, at least. I take the thick glass jug filled with dragon’s blood (Romanian longhorn) from the locked storeroom and bring it into the shop, where my uncle and Mr. Malfoy are discussing trade laws. Again in the back room, I squint over the list. There’s wolf’s bane, though he’s written it as “aconite”; dragon bile, which he’ll be waiting on for about a week; essence of dittany; and finally, flobberworm mucus — used to thicken potions. The handwriting is a fine, perfectly executed script; he probably had to sit at a desk as a boy and write his name a thousand times until his mother, tutor or whoever was satisfied with its form.

By the time I bring out the last of the ingredients, Mr. Malfoy seems to have satisfied himself with the quality of our products and is now viewing the other ingredients in the shop.

“You’ve quite the collection, Mr. Burke. I haven’t seen such curious...er, wares on display, even in the most eccentric venues of Europe!”

Oh no, he’s noticed that part of the shop.

Nearly anything in nature can be used for potions...grass cuttings and crushed stones; animal droppings; human remains, even. But every book written on the history of potions will list a special kind of ingredient that has been used since the very dawn of potion-brewing: reproductive organs.

The display which Mr. Malfoy is referring to holds exactly those things...including various animal genitalia. Some are dried and set in glass cases, while most have been preserved in jars along a shelf. Each item is clearly labeled with the organ, the species it belongs to, and the unique properties it possesses. It isn’t the largest display we have, but it’s certainly the most eye-catching. I try to keep straight-faced as possible, but I can’t stop a creeping blush from burning my cheeks.

Donius finally manages a sentence that doesn’t make him sound like a total arse-kissing nitwit:

“Yes sir. This establishment never shies away from the less conventional and exotic. Waste not, want not, eh sir?”

Mr. Malfoy gives Uncle an appraising look, “Indeed. Well, everything appears to be in order...”

They settle on a price: 220 galleons for the lot, minus the dragon bile. The gold coins glint tauntingly in the light from the windows — I want that money.

“When shall I have these delivered, sir?”

“The sooner the better, I think. Now, I must be going. I expect the dragon bile within the week, Mr. Burke”.

“Of course, sir! As soon as it arrives, sir!” Uncle bows deeply; Mr. Malfoy merely looks down his long nose at him, a smug grin playing at his lips, but the real kicker is when he looks to _me_ , as if he expects that I’ll do the same as my uncle. Instead, I stiffen my jaw and nod my head to him, looking him in the eye at all times. You’re in my house, old man — I’m not your servant.

He stares hard at me, and I can’t tell if he’s offended or...amused...?

Finally, with a swish of his long black cloak he turns toward the door.

“Well, a good day to you both!”

About 2 milliseconds after the bell has stopped ringing, I’m on the shop floor spitting blood into my hand.


	4. Dyled — Debt

Uncle Donius was so sore with me over his embarrassment this morning that he didn’t even stay for lunch...or bother with tea! Between his hurt pride and my cut lip, I think the transaction with Mr. Malfoy went rather well, though!

It’s nearing closing time, and after feeding the animals and sweeping the shop floor I leave Uncle checking his inventory and drag my way to the kitchen upstairs to prepare dinner. The old man will either join us or head to a pub — my money’s on the latter. I’ve been peeling potatoes when Gwenyn makes her presence in the kitchen known by throwing an airplane made of parchment directly over my head; I watch as it glides out of the window and onto the dirty cobbles below.

“What’s for dinner tonight, eh?”

“ _Noswaith dda_ to you, too!”

 _Gwenyn_ means ‘bee’, and she’s almost as busy and as irritating as her namesake. By busy I mean busy being either lazy or a pain. She and Llon are quite alike in personality, but where he is more adventurous, Gwenyn is mischievous.

“Get out, or help.” Why did I have to be born first?

I know when she walks further into the kitchen and plants her bottom in a chair that it isn’t to help at all.

“Don’ wanna leave, do I?”

“Alright, then.” With that, I grab a handful of potato peelings and toss the soggy brown bits into her face.

“Oi! _Betch_!”

Before she can react too quickly, I grab the back of her chair and dump her onto the floor, potato peelings falling through her long yellow hair, sliding down her shirt front and sticking to her round red face, which is snarling up at me in abject fury.

“I’M GONNA BLOODY KILL YOU, YOU...”

“WHAT’S GOING ON UP THERE?! I’LL THROW YOU LOT OUT...SHUT UP!!!

*** *** ***

Surprisingly our venerable old uncle has decided to join us unruly lot for boiled potatoes, sausage and buttered bread. Normally, after a day as eventful as this was, he’d have been long ago stewing in his cups at the Leakey Cauldron, or perhaps at the Broken Bone, one of two pubs in Knockturn Alley.

Llon was out running around Diagonal Alley all day and came in so late that he had to climb over the garden wall. That’s how we’re required to get in if we don’t make it back before closing — a jaunt over a stone wall. He had two scrawny lizards tucked in his pocket which he says the owner of the Magical Menagerie gave him.

“They was s’posed to be food, bu’ she said the owls would’n touch ‘em. Reckoned they were sickly or somfink.”

Between my thick Welsh accent, Uncle’s regular English accent and those of the city boys he made friends with at school, Llon’s speech has transformed into something I can’t identify.

“What were you doing in there...?”

This boy’s penchant for animals gets him in trouble sometimes — he’s tried riding a billy goat through the alley, only to be thrown into a stack of caged Cornish pixies, which sent them flying all over! He got attacked by a mother owl when he tried to make off with one of her owlets (we’re lucky the owl breeder didn’t try to charge him with theft!); and chased by a witch trying to wallop him with her broom for ‘allegedly’ trying to lure her crup (a magically bred dog with a forked tail) puppy with a rasher of bacon! He’ll probably die by dragon-fire in Romania, someday.

“I was jus’ lookin’ a’ the owls! I’m the only one in my room a’ school’ wivou’ one!” he replies, grumpy for a moment, then going back to his potatoes and sausage. He’s never surly for long.

Across the table, Ffionwyn is spooning tiny servings of potato into Afon’s waiting mouth, even though he’s perfectly capable of doing it himself. Ever since I brought him back here last night, the two have been inseparable, Ffionwyn acting as if he’s some foundling what’s been placed directly in her care. For the previous three years when I had to leave for school they would both go to live with Aunt Onyxia, but this last Christmas Ffionwyn was brought back to the apothecary by uncle Donius himself; apparently because Gwenyn, who was now alone without Llon, couldn’t keep out of trouble.

She was found climbing people’s rooftops with an old toy broomstick, ostensibly to “fly higher than a bleedin’ toe’s length off the ground.” Uncle lost her for nearly 24 whole hours because she decided to stay at the Leakey Cauldron because there was “better food, a vampire, and a circus owner recruiting new talent.” Finally, Donius decided that she needed something to distract her from mischief... to teach her responsibility... so he brought her four and-a-half year old sister back and told the then eight and-a-half year old Gwenyn to feed, water and dress her each day.

She did a bang up job of it all.

Finished eating, Uncle pushes his plate aside and looks fixedly at me.

“When you’re finished, come to my office.”

Right... to discuss my future plans... how could I forget?

Once I’ve managed to rope Llon and Gwenyn into washing the dishes, I make my way downstairs to Uncle’s “office” which is just a corner of his bedroom that he partitioned off with a screen. He’s sitting at a small wooden desk, cleaning his pipe bowl and looking over several number-filled pages.

I don't wait to be told to sit down. I want whatever he needs to speak to me about over with, already...it’s rarely ever anything good. He scrapes away the last of the resin and places the pipe aside.

“So you want to leave... eh? Start your own life in the world?”

He’s shuffling through the papers on his desk as he says this, squinting in the dim light as he checks that they’re all sound.

I assume he wants me to answer...

“Yes. I still...”

“Even if you had a job now, what makes you think you could just pack up and go...” he puts those papers down and I realize that my name is on the top one...and there’s numbers and symbols for galleons and sickles running beneath it...”you still owe me money from the past three years.”

He’s fucking joking.

“That was Mam’s job. Not mine.” My ears are beginning to hum unpleasantly.

Donius’s hands are folded loosely before him on the desk, his shoulders hunched forward with his eyes glinting strangely, like he’s trying hard not to turn snide.

“Oh yes, your mum’s payments... those didn’t continue past the first ten months that I had you lot.”

My breath has begun exiting my lungs in long, slow streams through my nostrils.

“I know, and you told me that summer when I came back not to worry about it.” Fuck me! I should’ve known better than to trust adults anymore!

He answers me with a smug look that I’d like to tear off with an empty bottle — I imagine how the break and snap of the glass would sound against the bones of his face...

”That’s right, and you didn’t have to worry about it.”

There’s a tense, buzzing sort of silence in the air as we stare at one another for a moment...

“You brats cost me a lot, don’t you know? All of the food you eat, every stitch on your backs, not to mention school books and other supplies — for you _and_ your brother, remember — wasn’t cheap. I’ve had to balance the cost of you lot with the apothecary’s supplies, my own living expenses, and I’ve got my own debts to pay!”

He pauses to let this all sink in... which is about as kind as he’s ever been to me.

“You can leave if you want to... but you’ll still owe me every knut and sickle from your upkeep, _plus_ interest.”

Now I’m confused, and he sees it quickly.

“ _Interest_ means extra money _on top_ of what you must pay, girl... keeps people from reneging on important payments. In your case, if you were to actually manage to find a place and a job, I would require specific payments from you on specific dates. If you didn’t pay me, or — more likely — _couldn’t_ pay me the full amount, I would then add interest...extra money... to the following payment, and so on. Do you understand?”

I understand, alright. I understand that my arse licking bellend of an uncle-who’s-really-a-cousin has likely been waiting — just _waiting_ — to dump this piss pot of information on me. This is probably the most enjoyable moment he’s had during the care of me.

“Another thing you’d need to consider are your brother’s and sister’s debts...”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, and it takes me a moment to realize that I’m no longer sitting, but standing up. Donius is hardly phased, though...

“Relax, my girl. Sit down... before I have to make you.”

I stand there glaring at him like an angry owl for a few moments more until I’ve managed to slow my heart rate to at least 110.

“Now then, your brothers and sisters are no different from you. They’ll each be responsible when they’re of age for paying me back... unless you do become their guardian soon with a place of your own, in which case _you_ would be obligated to pay for them. So, you would be paying your own debts plus each of their past expenses, alongside the cost of your new housing; food; their school supplies; clothing... every little thing. Think you’ll manage...?”

The humming that began in my ears earlier is now a vibrating pulse through my skull and my hands. How is this shit even legal?! Is it legal? We were kids for fuck’s sake, the rest of them are _still_ kids!

“Did you tell D.M.F.I.C. that Mam had gone off her payments, even...?!”

Donius raises an eyebrow, “You actually want the Department for Magical Families In Crisis to know what goes on here? All the shit they could dig up on you, you’d never get the kids in a hundred years!”

He’s talking about the times I’ve sold illegal items for him; he sells most of them himself, obviously it’s his business, but the ministry tends to respect older and more established witches and wizards over ones who are my age, with no credibility beyond school or our parents reputations. He can easily escape a conviction or a charge, just by implicating me.

I want to hurt him so badly right now... I can feel my pulse like a tiny drum. I wish Tad was here.

Donius leans back in his chair, clearly unperturbed by my state of shock.

“Well, does that sound like a plan, to you? Still want to take the full responsibility of the brood? Because if I were you, I’d be concerned with myself. That’s a lot of money you’d owe me, and you’ll probably have interest on your first payment for _this_ month... unless you nab a decent job before long, which I doubt.”

I just sit their, stunned. In the back of my mind though, is an oddly calm voice, gently telling the rest of my brain that he’s right — it’s unlikely that I’ll get a decent paying job that isn’t underground in some way; what I owe alongside what I’d be paying for my siblings would take years and years away from me. Maybe I should just concentrate on myself, for now at least.

Donius is now filling his pipe with the dark, minty-smelling tobacco that he likes, barely looking at up at me as he ends our conversation...

“I really don’t care what decision you make. I want my money, and that’s it. You can try getting ahold of your mammy if you want, but she’s probably hanging by a thread as it is.”

He finally lights up and sucks deeply in to his lungs, blowing out a thick bluish stream of smoke before he waves a hand dismissively at me...

“Alright, now get out of my office.”


	5. Borgin and Burke

Whilst in the back room staring at jars of eyeballs that seem to be staring back at me, my head is rushing with too many thoughts...

... I understand that Donius had to change his life when the ministry witch asked him to consider taking us in. I understand that he never wanted kids running around in his home. I understand that to live costs money, and that children inevitably cost another person money. I never wanted to be the responsible one. I never wanted to come here, to this dirty, shadowy alley in the middle of muggle London, to take care of my siblings and take orders from a bitter old wizard. I miss speaking Welsh and people not grinning at my accent. I want my tad to come and find me; I even want my Cadwallader relatives to acknowledge me — just one time. Only my mam’s parents showed any us any love.

Now I’m thinking of Mam’s family.

_Taid_ was the one who’d started the gathering business that we lived by. His brothers left him and the family property to move further south, which would have been fine, he said, except they’d never spoken to him again. They were younger than him and weren’t set to inherit the land anyway, so he said he never held it against them. Didn’t want a country life, Taid supposed; wanted to be a bit more looked up to in the Wizarding World. The Cadwallader line had kept themselves to themselves mostly, respectable enough that the name was recognizable. Still is though, innit?

There’s been a small number of Cadwallader kids at the school since Taid’s time — one boy is on the Hufflepuff quidditch team, actually. Never spoke to him as he’s younger than me and in a different house. Not much in common, and no recognition on his part. The Burkes had all but disappeared until me and Llon showed up. The old wizarding families tend to be like that: popping out small but steady lines of offspring, then suddenly vanishing from birth records for odd stretches of time until, finally, one male member gets married and produces an heir or two. Theodore Nott is a good example of this. I’ve seen his father, and the man is _senior._ Theodore’sthesame age as Draco Malfoy, but his tad looks old enough to be _Mr_. Malfoy’s father! 

The thumping of the kid’s feet above my head snaps me out of my harried thoughts. They've probably finished dressing themselves and are now searching the upstairs rooms for mischief. Donius has gone off to the Leakey Cauldron this morning to meet with an associate of his, likely to purchase some non-tradeable items. I’ve been completely out of sorts since Donius unloaded all my debt information on me last night. I even climbed over the garden wall to go and walk through the alley, only skipping the parts that are exceptionally seedy. 

I went into Diagon Alley as well, where all the shops had closed at predictably decent hours, while the few remaining witches and wizards strolled merrily along the street; just enjoying a warm night, I suppose. When I turned back into Knockturn Alley there were still a number of shops open, ones like the tiny old ‘apothecary’ up the street from Donius’s place. This other one sells ingredients meant for very specific old potions. The skinny old bat who runs it lives in the basement, where one can see the bright candlelight glowing just above the dark gray cobbles. Sometimes there’s creepy noises and shouts coming from the building; people say she performs ancient spells and makes special... _tonics..._ out of human remains. That’s one place I can consider working at — during daylight hours, at least.

Another shop that keeps night-hours is a pawnshop towards the end of the alley. The people who go in there after hours tend to have shifty looks about them, and I know the items that are bought and sold there are often stolen goods. I’d rather not try my luck there.

In the present moment, I’m preparing to find a duster to tidy up this musty room when the bell over the door announces a visitor. I’m saved from having to attend the front counter though, as I hear Donius’s voice in jovial conversation with someone. 

“Now then, I keep the ones from albino cockerels in here...”

He enters the back room, followed by another wizard with his face covered by the great black hood of his traveling cloak. Donius notices me standing there, and glances casually back at the tall, strongly built man behind him.

“He’s here to trade. We’ll be back in here for a bit, so I don’t want to see or hear any brats.” To the man he simply says, “My niece.”

As I turn to exit the room, the mysterious man nods his head and mutters a hard but wholly polite “mum”.

I wonder if he’s handsome, underneath his rough hood? Maybe I’d let him take me out to the back alley and fuck all the misery out of me; maybe Donius is actually going to sell me to him and the albino cockerels are just a farce; I’d probably let the man take me, at this point. 

But I don’t stay to find out if the hooded wizard is handsome or not, instead I run up the stairs to warn the children to behave, or Donius won’t be the only one walloping them later. In my room I run a brush through my hair which — if possible — has gotten longer than my backside in the past year at school. I’ve got dark hair like Tad’s; some say it’s black, others just call it dark because it’s not got the sheen that the truly jet-headed have.

It’s too warm outside to wear a cloak in my opinion, though many witches and wizards do wear them in such weather. I pull my dusty work robe over my head and exchange it for a deep garnet-colored one that ends below my elbows. 

I leave the shop and head down the alley towards Borgin and Burke’s, a dark artifacts shop run by Mr. Borgin. According to Donius, one of our long-dead relatives opened the shop with Mr. Borgin’s grandfather, hence our last name remaining on the sign over Mr Borgin’s business. Today, I’m going to see if I can wheedle a job out of old man Borgin; he’s always been quite nice to me and the kids, though he’s kicked out Llon and Gwenyn a few times for sneaking around his back room. He knows Donius quite well, and I’ve always had a funny feeling that he doesn’t like my uncle too much.

The dregs of wizarding society are out today; I pass shrouded witches and warlocks trying to keep their faces hidden; two stooped old witches stand against a bare wall, selling poisonous herbs and live, shrieking bats, baring yellowed teeth and looking as creepy as one can imagine (I swear, they must do it on purpose). Two goblins carrying bulging sacks and looking carefully over their shoulders walk deeper down the alley; two grubby-looking wizards smoking their pipes near the closed pie stall (dark arts aficionados have got to eat, sometimes) give me overly interested looks as I pass them by. I hope the resin cleaves to their bowls.

Borgin and Burke’s is thankfully empty when I open the door, and the familiar voice of old Mr Borgin comes hurriedly from the back...“I shall be right with you!” 

“It’s just me Mr Borgin... it’s Branda!”

“Eh...?”

Stooped and slick-haired as ever, Borgin comes up to his counter and actually smiles when he sees me. “Well, look what the kneazle dragged in from the street! Glad to be rid of that school nonsense?”

“I suppose so...” I’m suddenly unsure of how to proceed with asking for a job.

“Excellent. And how has your family fared in your absence? I’ve not spoken with Donius these past weeks...”

“They’re alive. Donius is the same as ever...” 

Mr Borgin eyes me closely — he hasn’t remained one of the most successful businessmen in Knockturn Alley without being able to read people — especially the kind to frequent this place.

“Oh dear... what’s the old bastard up to, now?”

“Well, it’s just... I have to have... sorry, I’m hoping for a job, Mr Borgin.”

At that, Borgin turns on his heel and points his wand towards the back room and a teapot, two cups and a bowl of sugar fly onto the counter. He taps the ancient looking pot, muttering under his breath until steam begins rising gently from the spout. 

“Have a seat, my girl.” 

A spindly wooden chair has appeared directly behind me, and soon a small round table from around the back is hopping awkwardly over the floor to stop beside me. He’s soon provided us with milk and a plate of rather stale smelling biscuits, but stale isn’t moldy, and tea makes biscuits better, anyway.

“Now then, what’s this about a job?”

“Well, I’m out of school now, so I need to start earning my own money and getting ready to live on my own...” I say as innocently as I can.

He’s not fooled. 

“... and I need to pay back everything I owe to Donius.”

“Tsk tsk, I was afraid that this might happen to you someday. I’ve heard Donius speak of his grievances with your lot before. Family doesn’t mean what it used to, you know...”

Is he talking about Donius’s lack of concern, or my parent’s lack of presence?

“I’m afraid I can’t give you a full-time job in my shop as of yet, but I can pay you to dust up the front every now and again. I don’t trust even a quarter of those whom I do business with, and your inexperience...”

“Don’t worry about me, Mr Borgin, I’ll take what I can get, but I will be searching for...”

Just then the door opens with the clang of a bell (I hate bells, anymore) and a tall, solidly built man with a thin black mustache enters. I immediately stand to help clear away the tea spread that’s right at the front of the shop, but the big wizard is far from bothered...

“Oh, are we having a tea party in here Borgin, how nice! I could use a good cuppa... I do take sugar, no milk if you please!” He’s grinning widely, but the glint in his eye says he’s reading the situation before him — Mr Borgin is not exactly known for his warm hospitality.

“And with a young lady, too! What a delight! Lucius... Lucius you ought to come quickly before they’ve drained the pot! Old Borgin’s gotten himself well in!” 

Borgin swears under his breath, while I avoid the stranger’s eye and rush to place the biscuits behind the counter, and right then Mr Lucius Malfoy strides into the shop. The big mustachioed man steps aside to give him room, and Mr Borgin adopts the same simpering, oily manner as Donius did when Mr Malfoy came into the apothecary.

“Ah, Mr Malfoy, looking well as always sir! How may I be of service to you?” 

I’m beginning to realize that Lucius Malfoy may be bigger brass than I’d previously thought.

Draco’s always invoking his father’s name, either to impress or to threaten... he’s even done it to some teachers! It isn’t that it never worked in his favor, but he did it so many bloody times that a lot of us stopped paying attention. I’d always assumed the Malfoys were just a particularly rich family with a lot of connections, but now...

The elder Malfoy’s cool voice breaks through the tense silence after the big wizard’s rather rude entrance, “Mr Borgin, you appear to be quite occupied, forgive us...” his eyes find me and recognition dawns on his face, “You, girl! I’d not thought to find you here! D’you attend Mr Borgin as well as Mr Burke?” Malfoy’s brawny companion looks very intrigued, now. Before I can answer, Borgin himself jumps in, “She may be, sir! I’ve needed someone to dust off the display cases...” 

Mr Malfoy takes this in, “Ah... I suspect the two of you were just discussing the subject.” His eyes survey the now half-cleared table, the teacups still full and waiting to be drunk.

I quip in, “Yes sir, and we’ve finished talking for now. I’ll be out of your way. Thank you Mr Borgin...”

“My dear girl, those teacups are still quite full...” he raises an eyebrow at me and Mr Borgin who, along with the strange man, is clearly anticipating what will happen next. I walk to the table and finish my tea in one gulp, knocking it back like a warm, earthy shot of liquor. “Thank you for the tea, Mr Burke... Mr Malfoy” I nod my head at him as I walk past to exit the shop. 

Before the door closes I hear the other man ask, “Who’s that little chit...?”

*** *** ***

_Lucius_

Luciuscould’ve sworn that the young witch he’d met in Burke’s apothecary the previous day and again just now in Borgin and Burke’s looked rather familiar. 

It hadn’t quite struck him the first time he’d met her, but while watching her as she knocked back a full cup of tea, something began tugging at his brain. The uncouthness of her action had lit some dim spark of memory, though he could not fully picture it. He’d heard her refer to Donius Burke as her “uncle” but as far as he could recall, the man’s long-dead father had produced no other issue. He would need to dip into the public family-archival, always a good source when one was unsure of another’s background. Family history provided information on one’s character, to be sure; apples never fell far from their trees — he should've known, he owned a full orchard!

As he and Macnair, who was ever the connoisseur of poor hapless witches, exited Mr Borgin’s shop the other man cleared his throat, “So then Lucius, are you going to tell me about your young acquaintance?”

What could he tell Macnair? He hardly knew any more about the girl than his fellow did! 

“D’you know of Donius Burke? The girl was working in his apothecary yesterday; I needed to restock the manor’s potions stores.”

Macnair raised a questioning eyebrow, “That’s all... no name, no address...?”

Lucius breathed deeply through his nostrils and tried not to roll his eyes, “Well, as I was quite busy seeing that Burke wasn’t trying to swindle me like the last apothecary, I didn’t feel inclined to harass his teenaged assistant on your behalf...”

Macnair waved a large, meaty hand dismissively, “Alright Lucius, I won’t bother with it! Good lord, you’re rarely any fun, these days!”

At this, Lucius could only stare at the other wizard. Macnair quickly realized how ridiculous the idea was... that any of them should be concerned with “fun” more than other matters at present...

Macnair cleared his throat apologetically, “Forgive me, Lucius... the summer air’s got me feeling some way.”

Lucius acknowledged the man’s flimsy platitude with his typical air of indifference, “Indeed, Macnair. Hot weather has always been rather... distracting... for those of your disposition, I suppose.” 

Macnair rolled his eyes, “Alright, Lucius. I’ll be off then, do let me know if you discover any more about that young cunny...”

“Good _day,_ Macnair! _”_ Some wizards never grew up, and Lucius had quite despaired of his long-time associate...

He considered apparating home to the manor, but his curiosity about Burke’s young “niece” was still at the forefront of his mind. He supposed he could check on his order of dragon’s bile, though a mere 24 hours had passed since he’d made arrangements for it. Then again, he recalled Narcissa worrying about the possiblity of doxies in the attic...

*** *** ***

The kids and I are standing ‘round the counter of the apothecary eating lunch. Donius often keeps the shop open during lunch, and though he left again a short time ago, he expects me to attend to business, despite four small children in need of their midday meal. To remedy the situation I’ve had Llon and Gwenyn bring sandwich fare down into the shop. All we have for that are some tomatoes, onions and cold slices of sausage — pig tastes good, but we could do with chicken or beef. Goat is nice as well, but we have to wait until we know they’ve got a bezoar formed before we can slaughter one. The chickens are sold for fresh ingredients in potions, so I always have to ask permission to harvest one for food, as well. I think I’ll do that tonight.

Gwenyn’s walking around the shop munching on her sandwich as she goes, stopping at the genital display to read about the properties of hippogriff testicles, “You cut ‘em off a big horse-bird, then?”

“ _I_ didn’t, Donius might’ve watched it though, but he probably just bought them from a dealer.”

“Borrrring!” She moves onto another display case.

It use to be a thing where wizards would put a hippogriff’s ball into their brandy or tea to help with magical (not even sexual) dysfunction. We know that it doesn’t actually do anything, now, but some people still like to try it out when they’re desperate or just curious.

Llon looks up from his lunch wistfully, “I wanna ride a hippogriff, someday!” I’m sure he does.

“Well, you might’ve been able to do it in Hagrid’s class, but someone else ruined that for everybody”... fucking Draco.

A glance out of the window tells me that most shoppers are likely at the Cauldron now, eating their lunch or otherwise resting in the shade away from the sun’s growing heat. A few passersby can be seen moving up and down the alleyway... no one particulary sinister right now... oh, there’s Donius come back from his reprieve, and he’s talking over his shoulder at... Lucius Malfoy... again?!

That horrid bell cling-clangs noisily as the door opens to let the two men into the shop; time to act professional.

“Alright kids, let’s take our lunch upstairs; grab your cups... I’ll help you...” Ffionwyn tries to take Afon’s sippy-cup along with both of their plates, but I grab his kit from her before she loses everything to the floor. Llon’s still shoveling food into his mouth as he heads for the stairs, eventually grabbing Afon around the waist and hoisting him along. Gwenyn, meanwhile, saunters lazily across the shop while staring squarely at Mr Malfoy, sizing him up. 

I say as nicely as I can, “Come on, Gwenyn...” but Donius is less patient.

“Get up there!” he snarls at her; she rolls her eyes at no one in particular and finally picks up her feet. 

“You’ve quite the brood, Mr Burke.” Mr Malfoy’s lips curl slightly as he watches my brother’s and sisters make their way out of the grown up’s space. I nod my head once again towards Mr Malfoy, ignoring Donius, and follow the short ones.

I hear Donius sigh heavily, “I do the best I can for them, sir. The day the last one moves out, I’ll be a free wizard, at last!” 

“I can only imagine...” now that I’ve heard that slow, haughty drawl more than a few times, I realize how Draco _tries_ to sound like his old man, but the boy’s such a spoilt little twat half the time that hardly anyone outside his gang takes him seriously. 

“You say you need the old doxycide formula, sir— please wait here a moment, I have some excellent product in the back... oh... Branda! Girl, prepare some tea for our guest, and be sure to mind yourself!” 

Damn him! I’m only half into my lunch! Malfoy probably won’t even touch anything we offer him, but in the small pause I give for him to refuse any refreshment, he says nothing, so I set the kettle on and charm the dirty teacups in the sink to clean themselves. 

I will say, Donius sounds much less simpering today than yesterday morning when Mr Malfoy was last here, but the servility is still present in his manner. For a second I’m wondering why Mr Malfoy hasn’t gone to the apothecary in Diagon Alley to purchase doxycide, but I realize that he must be looking for the formula which has been off-market for several years; the kind that, instead of only paralyzing the doxies, will properly kill them after 30 seconds. Doxies are nasty little pests with venomous bites, so they don’t need to be around unless one has need of that venom or their eggs, which can be used in potions (of course). 

“Here you are, Mr Malfoy, how do you like your tea?”

“Plain, if you please.”

I place the tea service on the counter, turning the tray so the teapot is closer to me. It’s warm outside again, so I’ve chosen a refreshing brew of mint, the vibrantly green liquid glints invitingly as I pour it into a cup for him. When I hand him the cup and saucer, the look on his face is one of mild surprise — he probably didn’t expect I would have even that much etiquette. As he is standing, he holds the saucer up as he takes a sip, rather than leaving it on the counter. 

“Pleasant” he murmurs, and I take this as my cue to leave, but before I can turn around he asks, “Forgive me... I couldn’t help but notice earlier... your lip...?” He gestures to a corner of his mouth, looking curious. The left side of my own is cut and bruised from when Donius hit me yesterday; the inside all shredded and tender. I freeze for a brief second, digging through my brain for an excuse, “I tripped and fell against the doorway.” I try to look him dead in the eyes as I say this. He raises an eyebrow, his expression unperturbed, “Doorway, eh?” 

“The doorway looks worse.”

Mr Malfoy makes a sound like he’s just held back a snort, returning to his tea; I turn to leave him, but he calls after me, “Now, you’re not going to leave me here alone, are you? It’s awfully dull to take tea on one’s own!” 

I want to go back to eating my sandwich, but it would be rude to refuse him my company — he’s too high up, and I’m too low down. 

“‘Course, sir, but I’m afraid I only brought one cup...” of course, he merely conjures a second saucer and cup. I add a small spoon of sugar into my tea, mixing it in with quick circular motions that clink gently against the porcelain until I remember how Aunt Onyxia reacted the first time she had me over for Sunday tea — “Miss _Patreva_... kindly stir your tea in a _civilized_ manner!” — I immediately cease what I’m doing and switch to gently moving my spoon back and forth. Mr Malfoy seems to be trying not to smirk over his own drink.

“My son used to do that on purpose when he was little... the boy enjoyed rattling his mother on occasion.” 

“I know Draco a bit — we were in the same house.”

Mr Malfoy doesn’t seem too surprised at this; at least he looks interested.

“Ah, yes... Slytherin was my house as well; I was made prefect in my fifth year.” 

“I was, too.” Indeed, I became a prefect the year my life went to absolute pieces. I was quite shocked, as I was set to take remedial classes to catch up on what I’d missed in the spring.

“Truly? I must ask you then, how did you find my son’s behavior throughout your appointment?”

Oh Lord, I’m not sure if I should answer him truthfully — I was one of the few Slytherin prefects who would hold Draco accountable for literally anything.

I take a busy sip of tea, “Well, he’s quite smart; he’s entertaining, and he sometimes treats his friends during Hogsmeade trips...” those really are the only good bits of Draco’s personality as far I could see, and even then he was often being a prat! His father nods his head, keeping his grey eyes on me, waiting for more information. How honest can I be with this man...?

“And how was his behavior with you?”

“Well... he didn’t like me much as a prefect. A lot of the prefects try to avoid reporting students in their own houses — I wasn’t one of them. I liked doing the job, but Draco was a good student as far as I know...”

“Severus and I communicate regularly about my son’s progress at school... but please, does he at least show you due respect?”

Well, if he’s asking me... I shake my head and grin wryly into my cup, “He does tend to call me a ‘stupid, bleeding cow’ when he sees me, but most of us students cursed our prefects, so I suppose I can’t really...”

Mr Malfoy sets his cup onto its saucer with an audible clink and places it on the counter. 

“I must apologize, on behalf of my son...”

Just then Donius finally emerges from the hidden storeroom next to the cellar — it’s too bad the devil’s snare is kept trimmed and placid in the dark, dank space or Donius might have his ankles snatched out from beneath him, someday...

“Here you are sir! I do apologize for the wait sir... I hope this one”...he throws a dark look at me...”has been minding herself?” 

“Indeed, Mr Burke, your... assistant... has been a fine hostess.” He raises the cup to his lips and takes a leisurely sip, as if Donius can’t possibly have any other business to attend to, but that’s the thing about this world, isn’t it? The rich may take their time, and the poor must give their time — although Donius isn’t exactly poor; just a tradesman.

“Glad to hear it sir, glad to hear it — the doxycide formula you requested sir...” he places a small glass bottle filled with a heavy black liquid upon which a translucent, oily red liquid sits... that’d be the poison; it’ll do the job once it’s been shaken in with the black liquid. 

“Ah... excellent Mr Burke. Shall we settle up, then?”

“Of course, sir. Three galleons and 12 sickles should do for this item.” 

What?! 

“Uncle Donius, that should be six galleons, not three... sir!”

“Not this one!” Donius hisses at me through clenched teeth, and the buzzing feeling I get when I’m upset or angry begins blooming in my neck and my jaw; I made that potion — last year in the basement, adding poisonous ingredient after poisonous ingredient, the steam burning my eyes and my lips. There’s a reason the ministry passed a law banning the brewing and selling of the shit.

I think Mr Malfoy is sensing the tension between Donius and me, for he now interjects, “I must say, Mr Burke, I found your first price quite surprising! Six galleons does sound much closer to the fair cost of such a... rare... concoction.” 

Donius nearly sputters, “Oh, but... sir... I...”

“Come now, Mr Burke” Malfoy reaches into one of his robe’s front pockets, “I’m also quite curious...” a handful of gold emerges to rest heavily atop the counter...”how does one obtain such special potions, anymore...” he’s counting pieces of gold from the small pile of money, lazily counting off one, two, three, four pieces... Donius opens his mouth to speak, and the humming, buzzing flush reaches my chest...

“I made it,” I don’t say this — I _proclaim_ it. 

Donius glares fire into my very soul; Mr Malfoy has paused his torturously slow summation of his gold, his cool gaze studying me with a strong hint of mirth. 

“ _You_ are the maker of this concoction?” Mr Malfoy’s eyes are now alight with... I don’t know, glee... disbelief... curiosity? It doesn’t matter; if some top nob wizard with no fear of strolling through the grimiest, seediest market in wizarding Britain wants to know how we get our less-than-legal materials and tinctures, I want him to know damn-well which items I’ve sweat and bled over. 

“Yes, I made it last summer.”

“I see, and do you produce other such potions?”

Donius immediately jumps in, desperate to gain a foothold in the conversation, “She does sir, when I feel she can manage the instructions.”

Mr Malfoy has finished counting out six galleons, pushing them towards Donius while staring directly at me.

“Forgive me, I’d quite forgotten to ask you earlier... but what is your name, girl?”

Again, before I can answer, Donius steps in, “her name is Branda sir.” Malfoy merely glances at him.

I speak my own name, more clearly than my uncle ever does, “ _Branda_ ”, the ‘r’ rolled fast and the a’s properly extended. _BRRAAN-daa._

 _“Branda”_ Mr Malfoy pronounces it perfectly, the very Welsh sounds rolling strangely off of his tongue. “And your surname?” 

“Burke, sir.”

“Of course, of course.”

He’s gazing more steadily at me now than before, looking down his long, sharp nose at me. 

“Her mother’s a Cadwallader.” Donius adds, and when I look at him I’m surprised to find him no longer bobbing submissively, nor flicking his eyes about in nervousness. I think I know where this is about to lead...

“Who were your grandmother’s family, on your father’s side?”

Here they come — the questions of ‘whose your family?’ ‘whose your blood? ‘how many magical grandparents can you claim?’

“Flints” I answer with confidence.

“I see, and your maternal grandmother? What was her surname?”

“Avery, sir. Her mother was a Prewett and my Tad’s tad’s mam was a Mulciber.”

I’m relieved to see that Malfoy looks impressed, if only for a moment — this man knows how to hold his emotions. I wait for him to ask for my parent’s Christian names, but instead he turns back to Donius.

“I trust our business today will remain... private... Donius,” he uses my uncle’s name for the first time, a clear gesture of — not friendship — but of guaranteed dealings in the future, and a degree of mutual understanding. 

Donius bows solemnly to Mr Malfoy, “Of course, Mr Malfoy, sir. You need not worry on that account, sir!” 

Finished with Donius, Mr Malfoy turns to me and, once again, I refuse to bow like my uncle. I wait for him to speak first, as he is above me, but he just gives me another odd, appraising look before bidding us a good a day and exiting the shop. 

I look at Donius, my feet planted and my hands curling into fists, ready to defend myself if need be, but the old man isn’t looking at me in that way, rather he’s wearing a strange, almost... worried? No, he doesn’t waste time worrying over me... a _disturbed_ expression on his face. 

For what, though?! I think our deal with Mr Malfoy went even better after I spoke with him...!


	6. Lucius’s Memory

_Lucius_

Lucius Malfoy hadn’t thought about Burke in several years, _Nicander_ Burke.

After the downfall of the Dark Lord in Godric’s Hollow, the man had ceased from attending any gatherings of the old lot — those followers of the Dark Lord who had not been captured or killed by the aurors. Lucius had initially assumed that Burke was playing it safe, trying to keep himself and his family out of trouble while the ministry continued rounding up any leftover supporters. As time went on, however, and the others had also not seen the the man, Lucius simply concluded that Nicander Burke was no longer willing to follow the old ways, and so promptly forgot him.

Lucius was a few years older than Nicander, who had been sorted into Slytherin house just as he himself had. They hadn’t exactly been close friends, though they’d certainly run in the same circles. Nicander was — entertaining — to have around. He smiled easily; knew enough jokes to get around potentially serious arguments, and he’d had a fondness for the outdoors. He was one of the few wizards many knew who could likely survive in the wilderness if he were to lose or break his wand.

Nicander hadn’t grown up in a prosperous household, unlike many of his compatriots, however his parents and a few select relatives had schooled him in proper manners and customs; they were pure-blooded, to be sure, merely lesser in their fortunes. Lucius supposed that the man could’ve excelled in society, if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with the then untapped potential of various magical, as well as un-magical beasts. “Blood-money, Lucius, it’ll be _blood_ -money I make my fortune in!” He’d laughed jovially as he’d drained a whole acromantula (dead, of course) of its blood in a dingy basement in Knockturn Alley. Of course, that hadn’t been the only thing distracting Nicander; quite evident when the young woman he’d been frequently seen with became visibly pregnant.

Eira Cadwallader’s family were even less prosperous than Nicander’s, though her father’s line had owned a sizable plot in northern Wales for several generations, and were considered by many to be among the most pureblooded families in the region. A quiet but shrewd family, they were known for maintaining the Welsh language in their homes, as well as naming the firstborn sons after their father’s wand wood: _Lwyfen_ — elm; _Masarn_ — maple. For her part, Eira had been rather rebellious when compared to her forefathers: she’d enjoyed socializing amongst her lover’s menacing friends, and she was soon to be found helping Nicander in his faunal exploits, banking off of the knowledge she’d gained from her father’s profession as an ingredi-wizard.

Lucius recalled that as the war waged on, Nicander had become less successful in his ventures than he’d hoped; between his exploits among the Dark Lord’s followers and trying to maintain an acceptable public façade — something Lucius had never struggled with — Nicander had eventually retreated with Eira to her parent’s cottage in Wales. He was still around to help the cause, certainly, and he would frequently roam the country with Lucius and the others — sometimes not going home for days at a time. This had surprised no one — young, unmarried, yet with a child on the way and living in his woman’s parent’s house, Nicander Burke had undoubtedly found himself far in over his head.

Lucius had been only mildly aware of Nicander’s entry into fatherhood. By 1981, the man spent even less time with their lot, primarily answering calls for assistance with special tasks which required his particular skillset. Eira, on the other hand, had completely disappeared from their circles. Not that Lucius had been concerned — he’d had his own private affairs to contend with. From courting Narcissa to eventually settling into married life, all amidst the turmoil of those years, Lucius had had plenty to distract him from the plight of some no-account blood-collector and his... well... _slag_ of a girlfriend (even if she was a pureblood).

But there was one memory which Lucius did have of Nicander as a father, and even after 14 years it was proving to be one of his more colorful recollections.

Nott’s deceased father had been a breeder and owner of several granians — gray-colored winged horses. No longer wanting the responsibility of caring for the creatures, Nott had managed to secure a buyer in France, with the caveat that the stallion be gelded. Lucius had had the idea that they could make a party of it; Nott, Macnair and Crabbe would bring the beast onto the grounds of Malfoy Manor, where they would spend the day drinking and gaming. Castrating a fully grown granian could be a potentially dangerous affair, so of course they’d all be present while Nicander (who else?) did the deed and rendered the high-spirited stallion to a more mild-mannered gelding.

Nicander would arrive before the others to prepare, and when Lucius had greeted him at the wrought-iron gate he’d been surprised to find that the man was not alone; behind him stood a small, dark haired girl of around three or four years, looking around the yew hedges with an expression that was at once curious and sour — sour like a crabapple or a gooseberry — quite pleasant, yet biting. It was obvious that she was Nicander’s child — her soft dark hair was already thick and as full as her father’s.

Nicander spoke up before his host could inquire...“ ‘Morning Lucius! How’s life been since our last?!” They shook hands warmly as ever, Nicander grinning widely in that easy manner of his, while Lucius couldn’t stop staring at the little waif beside him.

Nicander merely jerked his head at the child, “My girl, Branda — Eira’s under the weather today. This one takes care of herself though, so no one need bother much.”

Nicander was more nonchalant about the situation than Lucius thought appropriate, but he’d surprised himself by finding that he wasn’t overly perturbed by his friend’s lack of propriety. Lucius had never been so near a child of this age — his own son was yet an infant. Ironically, all those who would be in attendance that day, excepting Macnair, had children of Draco’s age.

Finding himself bending slightly to take the girl in more fully, Lucius noticed that she had the same handsome eyes as her father — a deep, oaky green with long, curling eyelashes. They were wider than her father’s though, shaped like her mother’s downturned hazel eyes. She’d also had the same pale yet brownish skin as Nicander, neither olive nor sallow. She would easily grow dark in the sun.

“She favors you; how old is she?”

“She’s four,” grunted Nicander, plainly ready for the adult’s activities to start.

Four?! God, but time flew swiftly! He himself was 27, his first child only one year old. Nicander had been two years behind him at Hogwarts, yet he’d already raised a child to the age of four? Had he even married the girl’s mother yet?

Remembering himself as host, Lucius straightened himself and gestured towards the manor, “Well then, shall we go inside for a drink before your preparations, Nicander...?”

They strolled leisurely up the gravel pathway, asking after one another’s families while little Branda had followed behind, glancing to and fro  
at unfamiliar, undoubtedly grander surroundings. Upon entering the drawing room, the little girl stood silently in the doorway, surveying the large room before her — it must have seemed positively palatial to her! Soon though, her eyes alighted on the crystal sweet-dish on a center table, and with no hesitation the child strode —quite single-mindedly — to the dish and grabbed an entire handful of colorful, shining treats. “At least say thank you, Branda!” Nicander had lightly admonished, looking lovingly at her as she plopped down on the floor to pop a strawberry sherbet in her mouth, staring distractedly at — the wall? The chair legs of the divan? Lucius supposed she must’ve been absorbed in savoring the sweet. Children were so odd, at times.

Ignoring the little one currently throwing crinkled wrappers onto his floor, Lucius offered Nicander a glass of the light mead he’d ordered to be kept chilled for the warming day ahead. As they were discussing the most recent statutes carried out by Crouch and his office, the sound of disgusted sputtering and something hard hitting the floor brought them quickly to attention, but it was merely to find that Branda had greatly disliked a vibrant green sweet, and after spitting it stickily into her hand, was now attempting to wipe it off on the rug.

“Branda don’t do that! Here, give it to me if you don’t like it!” Her father held out his hand and when the girl had managed to wipe the glistening green ball into his palm, the man popped it directly into his own mouth! He caught Lucius staring at him in shock and smirked, “Give it a few years, la’, you’ll be doing the same.”

“I very much hope that I’ll not forget the invention of the waste bin — or the vanishing charm.” Lucius couldn’t imagine doing anything so vulgar as to put his son’s slime-covered, half-eaten candy into his mouth.

Nicander rolled his eyes and waved his wand at the mess of wrappers. Next he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, fashioned it into a makeshift bag, and handed it to Branda.

“Here, put your sweets in that, including your trash!” He turned to Lucius, “I should be getting ready, the job’s not going to do itself, after all.”

“Are you really going to bring the child to the actual...well, you know?”

“She’ll be alright; can’t exactly leave her on her own in this house...”

Lucius agreed whole-heartedly; however, it seemed unlikely that they’d be able carry on with their planned revelries with a four year-old girl tagging along. His wife and son had departed earlier to visit relatives in London, and were not to be expected home until dinner — not that Narcissa could be expected to take charge of some ragamuffin child, even if her father was an old acquaintance — such a task was miles beneath either of them.

“If you’ll permit me, Nicander, I’ve an idea...” at this, Lucius snapped his fingers and an aging house elf dressed in a stained dish rag appeared, bowing low to her master and his guest. “Teezle, this is Mr Burke, an associate of mine; the child is his daughter, Miss Branda. Should Mr Burke require any assistance with the girl today, you will do what he asks; you will be responsible for anything that may happen to this child, do you understand, Teezle?”

The old she-elf glanced fearfully from Lucius to Nicander, “Yes master! Teezle is glad to serve whoever Master wishes!” The elf bowed again, wringing her hands in anticipation of a new command.

Lucius turned to Nicander, “Please don’t hesitate to use the elf. Teezle will feed and care for the girl every second of today, should you wish it; I’ve another elf in the kitchens, so it’s no trouble.”

Nicander gave Lucius a short bow, “Well, that’s a relief, I must say —now you,” he spoke directly to his daughter, “outside! Mind the elf!”

But it was apparent that Branda had never seen a house elf, for she was staring — quite horrified —at the small, ugly, wrinkled creature before her. In a moment she had spun around and begun running down the hallway towards the door, Teezle dashing fretfully after her, “Miss Branda, please don’t run with the sweetie in your mouth, Teezle could not bear it if Miss choked...!”

***  
Several hours after the arrival of the others and subsequent gelding of the not-so happy stallion, the five men had taken to drinking and lolling on the neat lawn before the manor. The warmth from the high summer sun coupled with their exertions through the grounds had lulled them into a calm, sedated state. A table was set with sparkling decanters of various brandies and meads, and each man sat or stood sipping his beverage quietly, the occasional comment drifting through the group.

In a moment, the tranquility was broken by Branda running swiftly across the grass, gripping a ragged bouquet of wildflowers; how far into the grounds had she gone? Every bloom near the manor was kept in a well-ordered garden. The house elf was soon to be seen running after the small girl, begging her to stop and “drink a nice, cold glass of cherry-water, or a pumpkin juice icey, Miss Branda! Your lips is all dry and chapped, Miss! Think of poor Mr Burke if you let the big sun burn you too much!”

“Branda! Come here! Come! Oh for fuck’s sake — _Dowch yma_!”

“Catch a summer cold, old boy?” Macnair smirked.

“Fuck off, _Walmac_!” Growled an unsteady Nicander, using the schoolboy nickname which Walden Macnair had always rankled at.

“Gentlemen, please — there’s a young one present!” Drawled Lucius in a lazy attempt to diffuse any potential dueling.

Branda stomped grumpily towards the gathered group of wizards. As she drew nearer, Lucius could see that she’d grown quite pink, and her lips were beginning to peel. Whenever he or Narcissa brought Draco out of doors, they made sure he was appropriately covered, and certainly hydrated! Didn’t Burke care if his only child became overwrought in such weather?

Nicander observed his daughter, squinting in the sunlight, looking for any signs of damage — or so Lucius had thought...

“What’ve you been up to, out there?” The child stared at him, her gaze drifting over the others. She’d looked shifty. “Did you pick those from the garden?!” Nicander pointed to the flowers held tightly in her fist, yellow cowslips and white daisies now forlornly wilting towards the ground.

“We don’t grow those in our gardens, Nicander. She probably went for a stroll in the meadow behind the manor — Teezle!” The house elf had been standing apart from their group, glancing apprehensively from her master to her charge, but she now snapped to and rushed quickly before Lucius, “Yes, Master?!”

“Where has the child been, today? Were you not to look after her?! So help me, if you’ve taken a single eye off of her...”

The old elf was trembling now, “Teezle is not abandoning precious Miss Branda! Teezle is watching Miss all day in the gardens; in the trees; in the meadow, Master! Miss Branda is not wanting to go inside for a nap, nor even a...a...”

“ _Yes_?” He’d hissed venomously.

“M-miss is not wanting to eat any lunch, this day, M-master...”

“What?! Have you not been able to get a _four year old_ to eat anything for the _whole day_?!” As a rule, Lucius did not concern himself with the care of other people’s children, but today he had company! He was in charge of what went on in his home, and if anything should happen to a fellow pureblood’s child on his property — all because this bloody elf was too incompetent...

But her father seemed quite unconcerned, “Oh, don’t get your knickers in a ball, la’. She does this all the time — probably tried to drown the elf in the fountain when we weren’t looking...”

“She looks parched” old Nott stated shortly. His own son was quite small and underdeveloped, and Lucius supposed he’d become quite attuned to the ups and downs of a child’s health.

“She look’ slow...” Crabbe spoke up, surprisingly having noted the airy look on the girl’s face whenever her fathere’d spoken to her, but Lucius thought he knew why she’d been acting that way...

“She speaks Welsh... Nicander?” Lucius inquired politely; the command her father had spoken was hardly English.

“Yes, but she knows more English than she tries to let on — knows she can fool people, now.”

At this, Macnair scoffed, rolling his eyes, “For God’s sake, Burke, teach her the bloody English!”

Crabbe grunted in agreement, “My son’s not learnin’ anythin’ bu’ English!” Lucius wasn’t sure that any child of Crabbe’s would even be _capable_ of learning a second language...

“I went to school with a bloke who spoke Irish all the time — ‘few of the teachers would whip him if he didn’t speak properly in class.” Nott had grown up in such times.

Nicander began to profusely defend himself, but  
Macnair’s attention seemed to have been caught by something just beyond the gathered men, “Burke...”

“She lives in bloody _Wales_ , you lot! Her grandparents speak Welsh...”

...”Burke”

“ _I’ve_ even learned Welsh, it’s impossible not to...”

...”Burke!”

...”pick it up, and it was the only way I could...”

“BURKE, you daft fucking cunt, your girl’s in the brandy...!”

  
*** *** ***

I remember my first taste of liquor; I was only about four or five, and someone had left a full glass on a low-lying table outside... some sort of party at a big house. It must’ve been summer, because I remember the bright sunlight from that day glinting merrily off the decanters, making rainbows when I raised my palms. I remember the cool, heady burn in my mouth, and the confusion of how something tasting so grown-up could also taste so pleasant. I also remember a lot of noise and laughing as I tried to drink more, but that’s where the memory fades.

Right now, I’m sitting in Donius’s office, holding a  
a glass he’s half-filled with scotch, swilling it around and watching it settle. Donius is sitting at his desk, packing the bowl of his pipe, lighting it with his wand. When he finishes, the stream of smoke he exhales is like dry ice — I wonder what he’s smoking tonight.

“So, you’ve officially met Lucius Malfoy, now.” He takes another pull, ignoring the scotch he poured for himself. He exhales again, gazing steadily through the white haze at me. “Know much about him?”

I shrug my shoulders, “He’s some toff who likes the dark arts and illegal shit; saw him at Borgin’s shop before he came in here.”

Donius lowers his pipe a little, his eyes narrowing slightly and his mouth twitching, “That man pulls more strings at the ministry than any other wizard in Britain.” He pauses, letting this sink in, though I can’t say it’s particularly jarring...

He seems to understand this, because the way he looks at me suggests that he’s not trying to intimidate, nor to discourage me from ever manning the front should Mr Malfoy grace us with his presence again.

Donius takes a breath, “I won’t tell you how to act with that man, but if you ever disrespect him in this shop, it will not just be me who loses.”  
He takes another drag, his teeth clinking gently against the polished wood, holding the smoke in his lungs this time, “Good business with him is _good_ business, and bad business with him is _bad_ business... do you understand _that_...?”

I think I understand; whatever good things Malfoy brings must be especially beneficial, but when things go badly... I just nod my head slowly, looking straight at Donius so that he knows I’m listening.

Donius goes glassy-eyed for a moment, shaking his head distractedly, “You don’t mess about with wizards like him, girl. Their gold and their influence goes deep into this alley and it’s ability to continue doing what it does to make a living — but that’s only part of why most of us are so careful about them.”

Donius shifts forward in his seat, resting his arms on the desk, both hands fiddling with the long-stemmed pipe. He doesn’t feel comfortable discussing this, I realize — he believes that he _needs_ to discuss it with me, or rather, _to_ me.

Since when does Donius care so much about anyone other than himself?

“What I mostly need you to take away from this little chat of ours is that the things you might do around wizards like Malfoy can have consequences, not just for you, but those who are closest to you.” He leans back and inhales, releases a tiny puff, “Alright now... go and prepare some supper for your litter mates, I’m off to the pub.”

Over dinner with my ‘litter mates’ I don’t really think much of what Donius said about Lucius Malfoy — it’s not as if I’m planning to rob the man, or pander some sort of shady business to him! Sure, Malfoy liked that I’m a pureblood, but other than that I’m just an impoverished teenager with an absent whore for a mam...

... and a werewolf for a tad.


	7. Learning Things

The dragon bile arrives two days after my little meetings with Borgin and Mr Malfoy. Heavy glass files filled with the dark green liquid now sit on a display case in the window, clearly labeled and ready to sell. Four files are packed carefully in straw inside a small wooden box, waiting to be delivered to the Malfoy’s address. Apparently they live in the south, in Wiltshire — chalk land. I know that because Tad told me when he took me along to harvest a mooncalf — well, it _might_ have been Wiltshire, half the time I didn’t know where we were, just the type of landscape it was; probably been in the middle of Scotland and only knew I was in highlands.

I think of how I miss the great, green, craggy landscape I grew up in as I count the money Mr Borgin paid me this morning. The day before he sent me a message via Llon that if I wanted a job, I was to show up at seven o’clock sharp to sweep and dust and polish; no touching the items inside the cases (as if I’m that stupid). It didn’t take more than a half hour to get the job done, what with Borgin telling me not to bother with certain things and having the broom charmed to do its bit. He actually paid me pretty decently, so I’ll likely keep that job along with whatever else I find. 

I still haven’t decided if I want to try adding the kids’ debts to my own and paying them off simultaneously (give them a head start in life after school) or to just stop being a mam and worry about myself. I do have some money — once I turned 17, I was able to open an account separate from either of my parents’. Any pocket money I had from Mam during our first year living with Donius ran out, of course, but the D.M.F.I.C. office was able to have a small amount removed from her vault and placed ‘on hold’ for in case we children came in need of emergency funds and Mam couldn’t be found (obviously they have no idea that Donius has been paying for us with his own money these past two and a half years). Last spring when I opened my account, I was able to apply to have a percentage of that money sent to my vault, but while I’m not completely destitute now, I don’t want to touch that money unless it’s a life or death situation. 

The other thing I’m considering is applying for guardianship and — should it be granted — to continue living with Donius at the apothecary. That could take the load off of paying rent in a new place and all the other stuff like groceries and school supplies. Maybe I could convince the old man to hold off on adding any more debts to my name if I’m willing to work for him for free — I already do some of that, anyway. Since I’m of age now I can do even more stuff for his business; for one, if I get a license to collect the more dangerous ingredients, he won’t need to pay for those particular items anymore. Of course, I can always just gather those ingredients on the sly... 

... and win a two-way ticket for a holiday in Azkaban. You’ve got to know how to hide what you’re doing if you want to break the law, and I don’t really know how to do that beyond keeping my mouth shut... yet...

I’m mulling my choices over again in the back room when Ffionwyn and Afon come bearing the broad, flat box of _Cymraeg_ flash cards I saved to buy the kids two Christmases ago. 

Between old-bitch-Onyxia and ‘speak-bloody-English’-Donius, my family’s Welsh hasn’t kept up. The older two have stopped using it on the daily. Llon can still throw an insult or greeting at me, and he knows all the words for animals and things related to them; I know he understands whatever I say to him in Welsh, even though he always answers in English. Gwenyn understands the lingo, for sure, but she never speaks a word of it to me, or anyone else for that matter; not even to cuss Donius or to irritate aunt Onyxia! I’d expected she’d at least use Welsh for _that_

I suppose it’s not that big of a deal... we are half English, after all. Tad spoke Welsh though; it was one of the things he and Taid (Mam’s tad) did together, speaking Welsh about... men’s stuff, I suppose, before Tad got _infected._ Taid passed away when I was ten, the year after it happened, and that was the final push for Mam to really go off the rails...

...” _Cardiau fflach...chwarae!”_ Flashcards... play! 

Ffionwyn is holding the flat box up to me, Afon standing beside her. His eyes are so big and his skin is so pale, and his fine baby-hair looks lank; he’s been sleeping and eating regularly since he’s come back here though, so I’m not sure why he’s like this. Sometimes, I think he toddles oddly as well, but it’s probably just how he walks for now, being only three...

“Alright, sit dow— I mean _eisteddwch!_ ” I’m supposed to be listing the ingredients we’re running low on, but it can wait; my eyes are starting to strain again, and these two want to learn Welsh, and that’s much more important, isn’t it?! I let Ffionwyn pick out whichever packet she likes today, which turns out to be plants — fitting. I shuffle the colorful deck inexpertly, lifting the first card picture-side out with the printed Welsh word facing me, “ _Beth yw hyn_?” I ask them. 

Ffionwyn barely pauses, “Coeden!” and she’s correct — ‘tree’ in Welsh is _coeden._ The next one has a picture of a field of flowers; “Blodau!” I high-five her in encouragement, then I place my fingers over the picture, letting only a single blossom show, but she’s not fooled for a second, “Blod _yn_!” She nearly jumps up in her excitement — she knows she is right. She’s named after a flower, herself — _Ffion_ — which means ‘foxglove’; the tubular, vivid pink and purple blossoms that are freckled on the inside — poisonous, too. Afon catches on and soon I’m pulling cards out of the magical beasts packet. 

Moments like these are what we kids have been living for, these past three years. Playing games, exploring the alleys, and staying out of Donius’s way. Holidays are lacking; we mostly keep the shop open and visit aunt Onyxia, where we young ones learn to speak no Welsh, and how to take tea properly. Christmas presents are few, and their birthdays come and go with a cheap bakery treat from me; better than nothing... they know someone is aware of their existence. 

Donius soon interrupts our lesson; I notice that he’s wearing his nicer cloak, and his shoes are polished, “Right, I’m going to deliver these, now” he’s holding the box containing Malfoy’s order. “Go ahead and close the shop, no one’s been in today, anyway.” 

“He wants you to deliver it in person?” I’m surprised Mr Malfoy would have a shopkeeper in his house, he seems so... snobby; perhaps a back door...?

Donius looks down at me, “Yes... he requested it the last time he was here.”

That must have been what they were talking about in the street right before they came in.

“Alright. Give the man my regards, I guess..?”

Lucius Malfoy did talk with me quite a bit last time, so I suppose it would be a bit rude to not acknowledge him, even indirectly. The old nob’s probably forgotten my name and what I look like, though. Donius looks at me all weird again before turning back into the shop and apparating away with a loud _crack_!

*** 

When Donius returns at dinnertime, he doesn’t sit to eat with us; he also doesn’t fuck off to the pub, either. He just sits by the open window (the kitchen also doubles as a sitting room) smoking his pipe and staring into space. What happened at the Malfoy’s?

He’s still sitting and puffing great, billowy clouds of grey-blue smoke out of the window, and when the kids have all washed up and gone off to play before nightfall, I consider whether or not to ask him about his day. This could prove to be a risky move — he has strange moods which can quickly turn into violent tirades. 

Once, he threw me bodily into the shed in the yard, locking me inside overnight for telling him that he didn’t take care of us properly. Another night he locked me out of the apothecary entirely, forcing me to walk the alleys until the sun finally rose. 

That turned out to be one of the more educational punishments I’ve had; in less than six hours, I learned what all the little back alleys and shadowy lanes in Knockturn Alley are used for, and by who: one is short and frequented by down-on-their-luck folks who just want a place to rest; another is long and scary, the people there were all whispering and handing things over to each other, so it’s probably where really dark stuff is traded. A third little pathway runs between a boarded up shop that use to sell books and a dingy building where an old potioneer lives and sells his brews; it’s generally empty but for the occasional group of huddled wizards or witches, likely doing secret dark deeds. Then there’s the lane that starts at an old pub called simply ‘The Bull’, and that’s where the whores go to work. 

Prostitute witches are few and far between — in Britain, anyway — don’t know what it’s like in other countries, do I? They’re usually witches who’ve been convicted of a crime and are unable to find gainful employment because of it; whose shame-faced families didn’t want to help them after leaving holiday in Azkaban. A lot of the ones I’ve seen aren’t very young either; most appear to be in their thirties, and even their forties. I don’t know much else about their lot, nor do I want to. Fucking minging, all of them. 

Whores aside, I think I’ll ask Donius what the story is on the Malfoy’s mansion — I’ll bet it’s right tidy. Maybe he’ll let me have a toke on that pipe... I’ve been rather curious about it. 

“Oi, Uncle, how’d your day go?” 

The man puffs smoke out of his nostrils, looking like an old, washed-out dragon. 

“It went.” 

Hmm, now I’m even more curious. If it had gone poorly, he’d whinge on about it. If it had gone well, he’d normally be in a pub by now. 

I stare at his pipe, “Might I try that?”

He looks confused for a moment, then glances at the dark-colored pipe in his hand, considering it... “sure — have a seat, girl.”

He hands it to me and I examine it; the stem is straight, dark, and polished from years of use; the bowl is not as heavy as some that I’ve seen, this one’s a bit shallow and round in shape. He tells me to suck the air into my lungs and to blow facing up or forward — not downward. The taste is berryish and woody, neither sweet nor bitter, but heady and relaxing. The smoke rests thickly in the air before me — no breeze to be had on this cloying evening. 

“Alright, give me that back.” I nearly start at the sound of his voice... I must be doing it right, then. “So, d’you enjoy that?” 

“Yeah, s’alright...”

The old man huffs a small laugh, taking a great drag for himself. “Lucius Malfoy asked after you... he seemed sorry you weren’t there.”

That’s surprising, though not a little intriguing.“You tell him I asked after him, then?”

“I did... right chuffed, he was. You made him feel important, I think!” He gives a snort at this, and 

more smoke emerges from his nose before he continues, “He had some friends over before me...”

My mind goes to that big mustachioed man I encountered in Borgin’s — I’m not sure how I feel about _him_ , yet. Might never see him again, though, it’s not like I recognized him from anywhere previously. I wait for Donius to elaborate on his statement, but he leaves it hanging in the air like the pearly pipe smoke. 

“What’s his house look like, then?”

“First off, a manor and a house are very different things; he has a manor, regular people have houses.”

Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Lucius Malfoy, it’s that he’s not regular people.

“Alright...”

“It’s a right nice place, there’s no doubt about that. Got a fountain, even.”

“In the manor...?”

“In the _garden,_ you ignorant thing, you!” He shakes his head. 

Well, fuck me then! I’ve lived in a cottage and an alley all my life, and Hogwarts is a _school_ to me, even though it _is_ a castle...

“He’s got a wife, hasn’t he?” I’ve heard Draco mention his mother a time or two, but of course I’ve never met her...

“He does. Proper fine lady, too. Complete opposite of you, that’s for sure!” 

He can only be kind for so long, though I don’t doubt that he’s right.

“What d’you mean by that, eh?”

He shrugs his shoulders, “Oh... she’s tall, elegant, well-mannered, fair — little brown thing like you can’t compete...” 

I’m not short, but I’m not especially tall either. I darken quickly in the sun where blonde little Gwenyn turns pink, then red, _then_ brown _._ Not me... I’m pale, then pink, then brown. Takes more than the foggy sun of Old Blighty to make me a lobster! My granny — _Nain_ — used to joke that I should’ve been named _Castan, ‘_ Chestnut’ _._

As for manners, I’ve plenty of good manners — I just don’t feel the need to waste them on this old dog. 

“I’m not saying you’re ugly, girl, I just mean that the two of you are complete opposites — like a garden-rose to a wildflower... that sort of thing.”

Apt, old man. I want to be pretty, alright, but wildflowers are quite nice — hardy, too. I like being told I’m hardy. 

*** *** ***

 _Lucius_

When Lucius welcomed Mr Burke into his home that afternoon, he’d found himself rather disappointed that the old man hadn’t sent the girl with his order, or at least brought her along to assist. He supposed Burke might’ve worried that she’d ruin his chances of future business with him — the old man had not seemed too pleased whenever the girl showed herself in the apothecary. 

Of course, Lucius hadn’t _intended_ for the dark young thing to arrive at the manor — it had only occurred to him as he’d approached the gate to admit Donius, just how charmingly serendipitous it would’ve been to greet a near fully-grown Branda on the very same spot he’d first met her 14 years previous. 

The dragon bile her ‘uncle’ delivered that day had satisfied, and after paying Donius more than its fair price, Narcissa had entered to announce that it was nearing ten minutes after four o’clock and that Lucius was late for tea; indeed he’d been losing small tracks of time over the last several days...

Not feeling that he’d truly concluded his business with old Burke, Lucius apologized as graciously as he could to his wife, and announced himself that he and Donius should take tea in private, to discuss further... business. 

“Your products have proved quite satisfactory, Donius. I do hope I can count on you in the future if I ever have need of more, ah... _delicate_... supplies.”

Donius had been only too happy to grab the opportunity before him, “You can rest assured, Mr Malfoy, that I’m quite willing and able to provide any thing from anywhere... whenever you have need of it.” 

Lucius tried to hold back from asking the questions he'd been dying to have answered, but found he was quite unable to to help himself, 

“Forgive me”... he set his cup down, the gentle clink had a controlled ring to it, “I don’t want you to think I’m prying into your personal affairs, Donius, but I’m dreadfully curious about your... niece...”

Donius stilled momentarily, his own cup halfway to his lips, and Lucius watched him carefully for any change in his expression. The old man took an unconcerned sip of tea, but Lucius could see Donius’s shoulders stiffen, his back suddenly straighter (hah! So he did have a spine). Then, in an unexpected turn, the older man lowered his cup, leaned back in his chair and spoke unflinchingly while looking Lucius directly in his eyes,

“She is Nicander’s daughter.”

He made this statement with an air that told Lucius the old shopkeeper’s memory was as good as his own — did he read the Prophet, as well? Did he pay close attention to the whispers which were undoubtedly beginning to flow through the shops and alleys of wizarding Britain, after what had happened a mere week and a half ago?

Having managed to throw his host off guard, Donius relaxed a bit, taking another slow sip of tea, “You know, Mr Malfoy, sir, I actually remember your lot from all those years ago... that is, you and your companions...”

Not a little disconcerted, Lucius collected himself quickly, “I remember seeing you, as well... on occasion.” He had to keep himself from sneering; he’d only ever met Donius once — perhaps twice — for any business in those days; he had known however, that Nicander was into some off-color dealings with his older cousin, along with a few others. That older cousin, Donius, was now calmly holding his empty cup in front of his face, examining the intricate pattern of silver ivy.

“He left his family in Wales several years ago, before Branda had even started school... I think. Don’t know where’s he’s gone, though.” He said this last as though it weren’t particularly important; a mere afterthought; just another wastrel of a man unwilling to take on his responsibilities as a father.

“‘Be nice if he’d chip in some funds for his offspring every once in awhile, but that’s about all I care of him, if I should be honest.” He continued his study of the china cup, turning it in his long, spindly fingers as he continued, this time about the woman in the equation, “Mother’s just as useful as him! Don’t know what she gets up to anymore... she was the reason I ended up with her whole brood!”

Lucius had begun to feel that they ought to be drinking something stronger than tea for this conversation... “Had she no relatives who would take the children?” 

“Apparently not, though I certainly asked! Opened my door one day and some witch and wizard from that D.M.F.I.C. office were there, saying how I was the only relative, how keeping the lot together was _so_ important and how mummy was involved in risky behavior... had me feeling like I’d have been a right monster if I’d said no!” 

For a moment Lucius was confused as to what office Donius was referring to — the man’d said D.M.F.I.C. as ‘demfic’, and having never discussed nor been involved with that particular sector of the ministry, it took a few moments more for Lucius to realize what the old man was referring to — the Department for Magical Families In Crisis, one of the ministry’s younger branches. 

“Anyway, the girl’s not worth much more than both parents put together — less wild, maybe, but still... she came from them, didn’t she?” He had an odd, earnest sort of look in his eyes now, Lucius thought. 

“Well, perhaps as she experiences the real world, now that she’s finished school... will you take more tea?”

Before Lucius could try to entice the other man with a more bracing refreshment, Donius had placed his napkin to his left and stood, “I’m afraid I shan’t, thank you, my shop awaits me in the hands of the children — I’ll be glad to see half of the place still intact!”

***

Now, standing at his office window contemplating the events of the day, Lucius’s mind ran over what he remembered from the past 14 years and the little information he’d gathered from old Donius over tea...

What had happened to Nicander Burke? Lucius was certain he’d heard no news of the man’s possible death, disappearance or even imprisonment. He’d known every one of his fellow’s fates over the years, but nothing of Nicander's...

... and were _all_ of those children Lucius had seen scrambling up the stairs in Burke’s shop two days previous really Nicander’s? They’d certainly looked it, and old Burke himself had said nothing to the contrary. Lucius held no doubts, however, that the brats all belonged to Eira. Perhaps Nicander had finally had enough of his wild, doe-eyed paramour, and had sought a new life elsewhere?

 _Had_ they married? Lucius thought he’d have felt quite dismayed if he’d discovered there'd been no invitation! The wedding would’ve likely been below standard, but Nicander had been useful to the cause, and a wedding gift from Lucius would’ve been carefully selected to be well received (and remembered) by the young couple. Alas, he’d heard of no wedding; no birth announcements; no christenings — Lucius decided that if Nicander ever did turn up, he’d give him a good what-for!

His thoughts on the matter were interrupted by a pale hand sweeping gently up and down his arm — his _right_ arm — anything suddenly touching his left was likely to send him reeling round like a startled alley cat — these days, anyway.

“Still pouting about that girl not coming?” Narcissa had walked quietly into his study, holding an evening glass of brandy for each of them. He turned away from the window where he’d been looking out at the tall iron gate and the yew hedges surrounding the lawn. The crystal glass felt smooth and cool in his hand — like his wife, who stood expectantly before him, taking a slow sip from her own glass. 

“No, no not that.” 

He’d confided in Narcissa about his encounter with the girl, and the subsequent burst of memories it had stirred in him. Narcissa had told him that he must have had a better relationship with Nicander Burke — whom she barely remembered, herself — than he’d realized, if meeting a strange teenager in some Knockturn Alley apothecary could affect him so. 

Lucius took a heavy swig from his glass, causing his wife to stare — unmoving — at him; a clear demand that whatever he’d been contemplating to be shared with her that instant. 

“I just can’t help wondering what happened to her father... I know what happened to all the others from those days, and I don’t like not knowing where the fool of a man could be without my or anyone else’s knowledge.” He took another long drink, “Besides, what with the way things have changed, the old boy could prove himself useful again.” 

The ever astute, pragmatic streak that dominated Lucius’s sense of direction was never far beneath the surface of his softer qualities — if, indeed, they weren’t surrounded by it entirely. 

Narcissa gazed steadily at her husband, her hand reaching up to smooth a stray hair from his cheek. Lucius felt a pleasant jolt at her touch. 

“Are you going to try and find the man, Lucius? Even with your duties to... the Dark Lord, now...”

It was Lucius’s turn to be the soothing one, “No, of course not my dear... but I do think I’ll keep an eye out. As I’ve said, he had useful skills, but until we’ve rallied the rest of our comrades, and gained a firmer foothold, I’ll not be foolish enough to risk my — our — position looking for that scoundrel.” 

Narcissa appeared somewhat mollified, but he knew she’d be eyeing him closely over the coming weeks. Lucius swayed slightly on his feet, wishing to ease the charging air in the room, “Dinner soon, my love?” 

Narcissa took a final dainty sip, and placed her glass on an ornate desk, “Quite soon; Draco will be in the dining room now... he’ll want to ask what you discussed with the others, today...”

“Well, tonight he’ll have to settle with discussing his behavior at school...”

When he returned home after speaking with Branda in the apothecary, he’d immediately called Draco to him for a little conversation — the boy’s whinging still rang in his ears, “But _Father_... she was supposed to be fairer to us Slytherins... she was one as well, but _no_!Even the other stupid prefects in the other stupid houses favored their own; she... she just wanted to show off to the other schools, I’ll bet! And she was completely jealous of my friends and I... she’s so poor and ragged, she couldn’t even go to the stupid Yule ball! And she’s always trying to kiss up to the teachers! It’s not my fault the stupid cow...”

As soon as the boy let slip the ‘stupid cow’ comment, Lucius knew that Draco had, indeed, been just as rude as young Branda had claimed he’d been. There was little reason for Draco to behave so poorly, especially to a Slytherin prefect whom Severus held in high enough regard to recommend the post to her, and whose blood purity rivaled their own. While Lucius didn’t doubt that the now 15 year-old Draco acted inappropriately when away from his parent’s influence, he still expected Draco to be respectful of his teachers (the deserving ones, at _least_ ), his social peers, and to those of equal blood purity who were not from families of blood traitors — Nicander’s children ticked the more important box in that criteria.

It was really the girl’s financial situation that placed her beneath them, of which — if Lucius was honest — he was mildly affronted. Indigent wizarding families could be such a blight on their community; they were _wizards_ , for God’s sake, not ignoble muggles who had to scrape their way through life in the dirt and filth of the world with nothing but their weak bodies! For Nicander’s family, Lucius more kindly considered them to be in ‘reduced circumstances’. 

But until he could find out more about his old friend’s situation, and that of his children, he had his child to sort out. 

“Oh, dear lord, Lucius,” Narcissa huffed as she took his arm and led them both from the room, “what could he have done now...?”


	8. The Lollipop Walk

The sun is shining bright and hot, once again, and the cobblestones in Diagon Alley have become so warm that one can feel the heat through their shoe-soles. Shadowy as it can be, Knockturn Alley’s warmed up something fierce, and it’s bloody rank! Spots near the Bull where people have pissed and vomited are now cooking, sending whiffs of rancid air through the alley. It’s not so bad around the apothecary and up towards the entrance to Diagon, but not far past, things get pretty bad. I hate living here.

I cleaned Mr Borgin’s shop again this morning and the old dog gave me an extra galleon just for sweeping behind his counter, so I’m taking the short ones into Diagon Alley for ice cream. Once I’ve changed into clean robes and brushed my hair, I wash the little one’s faces and comb their hair all nice, since it’s good to make an effort when going out — shows respect for the people around you, doesn’t it? I don’t even bother with Gwenyn, but I do manage to hold on to Llon long enough to wash his face and neck. 

As we stroll down Diagon Alley amidst the pleasant scent of absolutely nothing, Gwenyn makes her usual complaints about having to share treats with everyone, while good old Llon is just excited to have a bite of something not from a root, a pig or poultry (we’re getting low on those as well). 

“Are we gonna get a sunday, or a cone? Can we have our own... for once?”

“I’ll think about it.” Who do they think we are — the Malfoys?

If I do make them share, then a sunday would be best, as they can all sit around it and spoon it up. I don’t remember the prices though, so I tell them we’ll have to wait and look at the menu, but that doesn’t stop Llon from pulling up his frozen-sugar-milk fantasies...

“D’you think butterscotch and caramo’ taste the same? A bunch o’ peopo’ at schoo’ said they’re the exac’ same ‘fing, but tha’s _bu’shi_ ’!”

Good Lord, I think his accent’s gotten worse these last few days! What happened to his _Ls?!_

Gwenyncan’t help herself, “Butterscotch and caramel _are_ the same thing, twat!” 

I’m quite inclined to disagree; butterscotch is _far_ superior to any caramel confection out there — go ahead and fight me on that. 

Llon’snot taking the bait, but he’s always been a cheerful little blighter...

“We’w’, if they are the same ‘fing, then I should like to know how they make ‘em taste so different!”

How does one go from pronouncing ‘well’, with a very distinct ‘ll’ sound at the end, to saying it as ‘weww’ with the lls replaced by bloody ws? ‘Boy’s going to ruin his job prospects if he keeps this up.

“Why we ga’n so slow?” Gwenyn turns around impatiently to glare at me; for someone who’s acting all mad about having to _share_ their ice cream, she’s in an awfully big hurry. We’re going slow because I’m holding Afon’s hand. His name means ‘river’ in Welsh, but he surely isn’t as swift as one. I’d thought he might be toddling a bit oddly the last few days, but today he seems unable to move at a normal pace, even for a three year-old. That low, buzzing feeling starts vibrating in my chest, but I tamp it down with a sigh and heave my littlest brother onto my hip. He’s probably just tired from the heat... isn’t he?

“Happy now?” I ask Gwenyn as pointedly as I can, but of course she just nods her head sharply, like I’ve just performed the way I’m expected to, and turns back towards the direction of Mr Fortescue’s. 

Florian Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor isn’t necessarily expensive, but spending money on a fleeting thing like ice cream can feel rather frivolous; that’s why I make the kids share. Now that I know I’ve got mad debts to pay, I question every move I make with the gold and silver (mostly silver) in my pockets. Honestly though, a galleon for ice cream so that my siblings have one normal day in the summer shouldn’t be _that_ bad — should it?

“Right you lot, what you getting?” 

As soon as we reach the ice cream parlor, I plop Afon down onto the cobblestones; his butt against my hip has caused a great, chafing sweat-patch there, and he’s gotten... no, wait a minute... he doesn’t feel like he’s gotten much heavier than last summer... what the hell? Aren’t they supposed to grow like weeds at this age?

The kids are looking at a chalkboard menu that’s been set outside of the ice cream parlor, “I want butterscotch and caramo’, I’m dying to find ou’ now!” Alright, Llon, you’d better not abandon me on the butterscotch...

“Can I have a pink one?” Ffionwyn’s so cute when she asks for something, 

“What kind of pink one would you like? There’s strawberry... raspberry is like a dark pink; watermelon (the watermelon has little, black sugar seeds in it, I don’t think she’ll like that)...”

“She likes strawberry and cherry stuff” says Gwenyn, not taking her eyes off the menu. Of course — she had to take care of her little sister last year...

“Okay, you’re all getting two scoops and that’s it!” 

We walk into the shop, me hauling Afon along by the hand, and the cool air washes over me like blessing. After jostling each other to get to the counter first, the kids all have their cones when Mr Fortescue’s asks Afon kindly, “And what will you have, little man?” I order one of those sweet little baby-cones with two little scoops — one vanilla and the other chocolate, and Fortescue even asks him if he wants some sparkling dragon sprinkles on it, but Afon’s so shy he just sticks his hand in his mouth, hiding his face in my shoulder. Of course I tell Mr Fortescue he’d love some dragon sprinkles, and when I tell Afon, “Look, look! See the little dragons on your ice cream? Isn’t that neat?!” He finally leans forward to grab the cone from Mr Fortescue’s outstretched arm and starts mashing the top scoop with his lips. 

“Little tyke, eh?” Mr Fortescue is always nice. Too bad we can’t come here more often.

I pay for the ice cream (cheaper than I’d expected) and direct us all outside to a table under one of the parlor’s brightly striped umbrellas. 

“Cor, but that’s nice, isn’t it!” Gwenyn is lapping away at her chocolate and fudge-swirl mint with an expression of pure bliss, her pink face relaxing from it’s usually hardened mien; it’s like she’s always looking for someone to insult or offend. Ffionwyn requested a spoon for her strawberry and cherry delight, and is taking dainty little spoonfuls of the shiny, pink stuff. Llon is, unsurprisingly, nearly done stuffing the bottom scoop of ice cream into his dairy-smeared mouth as I remember to ask him, “Which ones better: the butterscotch or the caramel?” He doesn’t even take his mouth off of his food to answer, “‘utters’otsh.” I knew it! 

The little tables outside of the ice cream parlor have only two chairs to each of them, so I’ve set Afon down onto ours while the girls take the seats. Afon holds his cone out to me whenever he finishes taking a lick himself — such a good little brother. The girl’s are only halfway through their own treats when Llon finally manages to shove the last of his soggy cone into his maw, 

“O’hay, I’ go-“, he swallows hard, taking a breath and wiping his mouth on his arm, “I’m going to the Leakey Cauldron, one o’ the guests ‘ad a runespoor yesterday...” 

A runespoor — those three-headed magical snakes from West Africa that lay their eggs _through their mouth!_ Runespoor eggs also happen to be used in some of the more verboten potions, so I might just see this creature in Donius’s shop later!

“See if he wants to sell it then...” I say half-jokingly, before he turns onto the street, only to run smack into a tall wizard dressed in fine, dark robes...

“I say, lad! Do look where you’re going!” A stern, slow drawl reaches my ears, and before I can offer any apologies on Llon’s behalf, Mr Malfoy’s steel-colored eyes find me under the shadow of the umbrella. “Why, Miss Burke! How are you this fine day?”

Llon is still standing there in front of him, looking to me with unsure eyes...

I speak to my brother first, before nodding to Mr Malfoy, “Llon, just say ‘sorry’ and go — I’m quite well, sir, yourself?” Oh lord, this could be less awkward! Poor Llon, he looks as though the last thing on his mind is a runespoor in some smoky pub, his head hangs down in embarrassment and his cheeks have gone all pink. 

“Sorry... sir,” he mutters as he slinks back under the umbrella with the rest of us... oh dear! 

“Oh... is this your brother..?” Mr Malfoy raises an eyebrow, looking over my siblings with his cool, steady gaze. I straighten up a little, preparing for another barrage of questions, “Yes, his name’s Llon; I apologize for him.” 

Mr Malfoy’s eyes continue to sweep over our lot, no doubt taking in the shabby, hand-me-down clothing worn by Gwenyn and Ffionwyn; Llon’s the only one who’s ever in clothes that were his from the beginning as he’s the eldest boy, but they’re certainly not fine. At least Ffionwyn’s pigtails have stayed out of her ice cream, and Gwenyn hasn’t opened her mouth to him, yet...

“And these young ones?” He gestures to the others, “Won’t you introduce us..?” I swear, I can see the corner of his mouth twitch, like he’s trying not to smirk or something — well, I best get on with it, then...

“This is Afon” and I turn the bairn around so he’s now facing Mr Malfoy, who has come nearer to our table. 

“This one’s Ffionwyn” I pat my sister’s brown head, and she edges nearer to me in shyness, her sticky cheek getting pink ice cream on my dress. Gwenyn’s looking him up and down much as she did the first time she saw him — in the shop when we were eating our lunch and had to retreat upstairs for Donius and Mr Malfoy to do business. 

“...and this is Gwenyn.”

Of course, before the man can respond, the little brat has to get a word in...

“You a toff, then?”

“Gwenyn! Eat your ice cream! I’m sorry, Mr Malfoy, this one’s never been very good on her manners!” Really, Donius is worried that _I_ will do something to offend Mr Malfoy?!

For his part, Malfoy gives my ill-mannered sister a mere curl of his lip, though he doesn’t say anything back at her. 

“Charmed, I’m sure.” He stands with his hands behind his back, leaning forward slightly to get a better look at the children, “And how old are they?”

Well, that’s easy enough, “Ffionwyn’s five and Afon’s three. These two”... I gesture to Llon and Gwenyn in turn... “‘twelve and nine.” 

“I see... and you’re out of Hogwarts now... you must be seventeen at least?” 

“Eighteen... sir.”

“Ah, getting on then, aren’t we?” 

I don’t know what he means, so I don’t know how to answer; indeed, if I’m meant to answer him at all.

“How is your uncle, Miss Burke? I daresay he’s kept you busy at the shop?” He steps nearer, clearly intending to make himself comfortable. Afon has finished his ice cream and twists himself nearly off the table trying to hand me his empty cone. I take it and help him turn towards me again. 

“He’s been very well. We’ve had some good business this past week. I uh... hope you’ve been well, yourself?” Afon suddenly decides he wants to finish his cone, shoving a sticky hand around mine and trying to pry it out with with his other, just as sticky, hand. I slurp the melted remnants of vanilla ice cream from the cone’s cavity and hand it back to my brother.

Gwenyn takes another chance to edge in, “‘Course he’s been well.. he’s a right nob, isn’t he?” What is it with this child?!

“Gwenyn! Be polite, or go somewhere else... please!” 

I feel so flustered right now! I think I’m responsible for my sister’s actions when we’re out — as the eldest sibling — but I don’t really know what to do. How can I look Mr Malfoy in the eye with any dignity, at this moment? 

“Don’t twist your knickers so hard, I’m ga’n anyway!” She (thankfully) gets up and makes to leave our company, but as she does she makes doubly sure to walk past Mr Malfoy, eyeing him haughtily like she did the other day. He actually gives it right back to her, tilting his head a little and sneering at her until she turns away.

I’m so mortified that all I can do is mutter a pathetic apology to the man. 

“I think I’m gonna go to the Leakey Cauldron, now.” Good lord, I forgot that Llon was still by the parlor with us! I don’t like the way he’s so subdued after running into Mr Malfoy, it’s just not right for my oldest brother to be so shame-faced. Unnatural, like. 

“Say hi to the runespoor for me — and try to come back home before closing!” I have to shout the last bit as he bolts from his spot beside me. He’ll probably be out as late as he can manage, until he gets hungry.

“A runespoor?” Mr Malfoy is now leaning against the brick building near me, though a healthy distance away. I explain to him what my brother had told me earlier, about some wizard who’d apparently had one of the strange beasts yesterday. 

“Likes creatures, does your brother?”

Apparently m’lord wishes to converse with the riffraff today — I suppose it’ll be the most interesting part of my day, though I must say he’s making me a bit nervous, what with needing to remember proper manners and all!

“Yes he likes animals, alright. I’m afraid he might try to kidnap this one, though I’m sure Donius would be pleased — good money, runespoors.”

It’s illegal to trade in runespoors as much as their eggs, but at this point I think Lucius Malfoy knows we sell illegal items in the shop. As often as he’s shown up in the past week, he has to know. The man doesn’t let slip any reaction to what I’ve just said, instead opting to drawl on, 

“And do you, Miss Burke, enjoy working with animals?”

I look him in his pale, slightly flushed face and I’m surprised to see that he isn’t holding back some little sneer; he looks genuinely curious. 

“Yes, I like working with them. I like being outside.” Its true, I love the countryside and the things one can find out there, if one only puts in the effort to learn how — never understood why so many people found the country ‘boring’. 

“How fascinating. Why don’t we sit down? It’s awfully warm out today, isn’t it?” 

Ffionwyn’s still finishing her ice cream in one of the two chairs; the other I suppose I should let him take, but he pulls it out and gestures politely for me to sit down, while he takes his wand from an inside pocket and conjures a third, identical one for himself. At least he’s not snobby enough to make me — the woman with a toddler — continue standing up. 

“Thank you, Mr Malfoy.” I say as brightly as I can; I don’t want him to know that I’m feeling so trepidatious about him visiting with me.

Behind us, a pair of middle aged wizards in worn, but not-too-shabby robes sit at a second small table; one holds a rolled up copy of the Daily Prophet, while his friend holds a small dish of plain vanilla ice cream — probably shopkeepers out for a break. They’re muttering rather loudly, too. People need to keep themselves to themselves!

Mr Malfoy draws my attention back to him with a question, “Do you have any plans for the future, now that you’ve finished your education, Miss Burke?” His usual haughty, slow drawl has a more convivial tone now — he seems truly intent on getting to know me more. I can’t think why.

“I... suppose I’d like to try getting a collecting-license for more dangerous or restricted potion ingredients... but I need to make more money than I have right now, so I’m still looking for small jobs like the one I have at Mr Borgin’s shop.” 

God, but saying it all aloud shows me how pathetic it is! My plans used to be to make money; get a license; make more money; get a flat; get guardianship; be an ingredi-witch or whatever one wants to call it and get the fuck back to Wales — and find Tad. Thanks for the debts Donius, you bastard! 

“Oh... d’you mean an aconitor’s license?”

He means an ingredi-witch or wizard, but the older, more involved word is _aconitor —_

‘a-CON-i-TOR’, or ‘ACK-o-NIGHT-er’. It used to mean someone who gathered and sold wolf’s bane — aconite — for potions, poisons and hunters to dip their arrows in to make a faster kill. But, like most words, it grew until it came to mean those of us who will provide any sort of ingredient one might need for a brew. I’ve heard it’s a dying profession in Britain, and it’s never been the most sought-after job, either. People really don’t know what they’re missing out on, in my opinion.

“Yes. It was my parent’s and grandparent’s profession. I used to go with them a lot.” Ah, the memories!

“A good head-start, then...” He looks quite curious now, and I wait for him to ask me another question, but just as he opens his mouth, the ever-indignant voice of my cousin-aunt comes crashing down upon my ears...

“ _Miss_ Patreva, what are you doing?!” 

I turn to look at old Onyxia who, even in the bright, summer sunlight looks just as imposing as when she’s in the shadowy confines of her home. Her jet-black robes are sewn in a fitted fashion that rather shows her stocky build, but the onyx stones she wears at her throat and ears give her an air of sophistication that’s difficult to disrespect. Apparently she’s been out shopping for victuals; the basket on her arm holds several wrapped pastries and breads. She’s looking from me to Mr Malfoy with a discomfited expression.

“He spoke to me first!” I protest, trying to keep my voice civil for the sake of my siblings as well as Mr Malfoy. 

I was taught — and not even by Onyxia or Donius — that people of my social standing don’t begin conversations with people like Lucius Malfoy; not unless it’s a life or death situation _or_ unlessone is friends with them. It’s an almost nonexistent part of students’ lives at Hogwarts, of course, but outside of school there’s a sizable chunk of wizarding society that maintains a certain amount of old customs and etiquette. Onyxia is clearly worried that I’ve broken those rules today; after all, why would someone like Lucius Malfoy stop in the middle of Diagon Alley to have any sort of conversation with _me_?

“I should hope not, my girl!” Her eyes drift suspiciously towards Mr Malfoy, and for what will probably be the only moment in my life, I feel a shred of genuine respect for the old harridan. I make to stand up and introduce her to Mr Malfoy, but the man himself rises first...

“Forgive me, madame — please, allow me to introduce myself — Lucius Malfoy...” he gives Onyxia a respectful bow, but the old bat doesn’t seem impressed. “Indeed... I am Onyxia Burke, a relative of these children.” She nods her head stiffly at me and the two little ones.

“A pleasure, madame. You’ll know Donius then?”

“Yes... he’s my cousin.” She answers him politely but cooly, her dark, amber colored eyes staring straight at me. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ve business to attend to.” Mr Malfoy graciously bows to her again, and when she passes by me, I can see her eyes narrowed and her jaw set. What’s got her knickers in a twist, I wonder? She didn’t even bother to say goodbye to me or the other two kids!

Mr Malfoy seats himself once more and it’s all I can do to look him in his face after all that. “I apologize, sir, my aunt is very strict in her... her... ways... I suppose...” perhaps I should just tell him she’s an insufferable old cow...?

“Oh, _is_ she your aunt?” He leans back in his chair, quite unperturbed. 

“Not exactly, it’s just how we’ve always been told to address her.”

As I’ve been speaking, the two wizards at the other table have begun conversing louder than before; apparently something in the prophet has them all in a dither, something about...

“That Potter boy said he’d seen You-Know-Who return straight to the minister’s face, old chap! Dumbledore was there and everything!”

His mate claps back with, “Come off it, man! They’re saying the boy’s stark raving mad and that it’s all due to that scar on his head! Probably caught up to him, age he’s at now...”

The first man doesn’t sound like he’s in agreement, “Dumbledore stands behind the lad, old boy! I can’t believe you’re actually considering the Prophet to be more reliable than him! I mean, Fudge over Dumbledore, really?!” 

I try to ignore them and explain what it is that Onyxia does, but the voice of the second man becomes even louder, and when I chance a proper look at them, I see that one of them is actually standing!

“Are you calling me an idiot then?” They’re both standing over the small round table now, practically shouting their disagreements, and passers by are staring and gaping; Ffionwyn and Afon pull in closer to me. 

“Perhaps we should take a walk along the alley, Miss Burke?” Mr Malfoy’s voice pulls me back from the scene. I nod my head enthusiastically and haul Afon back onto my hip, while Ffionwyn wipes her sticky, pink mouth with the back of her hands. “Which direction should we walk in, sir? I’m done here, so we can head whichever direction you’d like.” 

“Shall I escort you all home then? Perhaps I’ll remember more ingredients I’ve need of...” 

“Alright then. Lead the way Ffionwyn, we’re going back to the shop.” I want to see how well she knows her small, cobble-stoned world. 

“But _whyyy_?” She’s probably been hoping we would stop by the sweetshop, where this season’s new display features large lollipops in the shape of rearing unicorns that shimmer just like the animal’s horn. They come in gold and white, silver and white, or pure white — the colors of young, middling and mature unicorns. I wonder what the the flavors are meant to be?

“Because I said so. Let’s go.” She turns around with a pout and we’re off towards Knockturn Alley at a leisurely stroll.

“So, about this — _aconitor_ — business of yours, what on earth led you to seek that path?” His earlier, more friendly tone, has gone back to the usual high-and-mighty drawl I’ve come to expect from him. 

“My parents both did it, and so did my grandparents” 

“Yes, you told me that, but why would you decide to continue in their trade?” 

This must be the pushback towards my family’s profession that Taid sometimes spoke of. Traditional ingredi-witches and wizards are known for still traveling around the countryside digging, trapping, mucking, chasing and all manner of things to collect whatever our kind need to make potions and medicines and what have you. Nowadays, witches and wizards are collecting their own potion’s ingredients far less than was once common; they’re used to buying supplies from apothecaries or growing a select few in their back-gardens. Students learn to skin things in potions class, and get to know all kinds of body parts from various animals, but the idea of a person making a living processing and selling those kinds of messy, bloody objects seems to really bother some folk. I don’t understand why — how do they think their ingredients end up in the apothecaries, for God’s sake?

I tell Mr Malfoy exactly why I want to continue the profession, “Because I enjoy it, sir. I told you I liked being outside.” I’m not trying to back-talk the man, but if he pushes me, I might not be able to hold my tongue. 

“I see.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Play quidditch at all, when you were at school then?” 

“No.” I really don’t see how the two things are related. Half of the people on each of the house quidditch teams were complete knobheads, from what I could see. What my family did was a _profession_!It was bloody good fun as well, but one had to keep their head on! Oh, and it produced actual results.

My answer to his quidditch question must have sounded more final than I meant it to, because he backtracks to the ingredi-witch subject, with a more high-stakes twist to it now...

“It seems rather — an unfit occupation for a pureblooded witch or wizard, such as yourself Miss Burke.” 

“My uncle Donius and aunt Onyxia both run shops,” I point out.

“Indeed, they do, however they’re careers are more... how shall I say? _Civilized,_ I suppose. Also, your prospects are just beginning, whilst Donius and his cousin are... in settled positions (I think he means they’re old). You have the time to strive towards a more dignified...”

“Ffionwyn, where do you think you’re going?!” I excuse myself to Mr Malfoy, for my sister has steered directly from the way home to the blasted sweetshop with its shiny new lollipops and — good Lord, they have little confections of animals trodding ‘round the display-windows! Blue, sugary elephants; pink, powdered pigs; chocolaty brown dogs and all kinds of creatures are milling about cases of bonbons and those damn, new unicorn lollipops. 

“No.” 

Ffionwyn has her nose pressed right up against the glass, both hands making smudge marks on either side of her. The new sweets are always too expensive. Besides, she’s already had a treat today, and she didn’t even have to share it! 

“Come on, Ffion, we’re being rude...”

“Not at all.” Mr Malfoy has come up beside us and is looking over the colorful display. “Funny how they seem to know what will reel them in, isn’t it?” He must be talking about the shops proprietors, and yes, they certainly do know what will bring the short ones running to their shop. Every year I have at least one screaming, crying fit in the middle of Diagon Alley because I won’t spend money on the new color-changing, spun-sugar chameleons or big, sparkling snowflakes on sticks that disintegrate into thousands of smaller snowflakes when dipped in hot cocoa. 

“Sorry, they always try to get me in here. Come on, sis.” I try to take one of her hands away from the window but she bats me away and presses her face even flatter against the glass. “Girl, we can buy candy when we’re in more gold, come on!” She finally peels herself away and looks up at me in pure dejection, “ _Whyyy_?” 

“Because you just had a whole cone of ice cream! You don’t need a whole lollipop!”

“After the new item, is she? Come here, you.” Mr Malfoy looks at my sister and gestures for her to come nearer, but Ffionwyn’s not too sure about him yet and hides in my dress. “He’s not gonna bite, get...” I push her gently as I can towards him but she’s not having it, turning back towards me and wrapping her arms around my thigh. 

“Well if you don’t really like sweets, then I suppose I’ll just keep this then...” and he’s suddenly holding a great, shining galleon in his fingertips, right at Ffionwyn’s eye-level! She immediately lets go of my leg and goes to grab the coin from him. “Oh no, sir, you don’t need to... Ffionwyn!” but my protests fall on deaf ears...

“I insist, Miss Burke. Nice little girls should have something sweet now and again; besides, I feel I owe you for the affront I caused your... aunt.” 

“Well, that’s very kind of you. Thank you very much, Mr Malfoy.” I just hope she doesn’t think he’s a money-bag if she ever sees him again. When she comes out of the shop’s door, she’s holding not one, but _two_ of the shimmering unicorn lollipops! Before I can admonish the little beggar, she reaches up to hand one to Afon, who’s been dozing lightly against my shoulder, creating an even bigger sweat stain on my torso than before. She tries tapping him on the head with the lollipop to get his attention, so he must really be off, now. 

“Don’t, Ffion, just carry it until we get home... and say ‘thank you’!” I gesture to Mr Malfoy and she shyly leans into my leg again, muttering a barely audible “Thank you” up at him.

“Charming little thing. Shall we continue on?”

“Yes, let’s.” I really can’t believe she’s actually gotten that lollipop — and two of them! I’m sure old Onyxia would’ve been horrified.

“Now, back to our conversation about your plans... do you really think a witch of your — heritage — ought to engage in a career as an aconitor?” 

My God, he really is tied up about this, isn’t he? Truly, I’ve about had it with this, and I have to work to keep an edge from my voice, “Since aconiting (is that even a proper word?) is part of my heritage I do believe it is my right to take up my family’s profession — however other’s may look down upon it, sir.”

I pause to adjust my straw-woven witch’s hat so that I can see him from my periphery, and he opens his mouth to speak again, but I’m not yet finished, “Besides, who better to do the job than purebloods? Do you really want to be buying potion’s ingredients that have been gathered and processed by someone with _less_ magical blood?Everyone knows that only witches and wizards, and other magical beings, are even _capable_ of detecting many magical plants and animals.” 

I stare straight ahead as I say my peace; I have nothing different to say to him about this subject than I do to anyone else, though a few details behind why I wish to be an ingredi-witch are different. Different people respond to different principles, after all. Donius likes to hear about money and profitability; Onyxia wants to hear about family pride and tradition, while Professor Snape just wanted to know that I had the ability to achieve the right kind of O.W.L.S. and N.E.W.T.S. 

Mr Malfoy seems to be mulling my words over, “My God, girl, but you do believe in your reasons, don’t you? I’ll tell you the truth — I’d never considered that such work might be best left to those pureblooded witches or wizards who would choose to take it up. I may have to consider this more thoroughly...”

“They call that ‘food for thought’, don’t they?” I’m relieved that he’s relented somewhat.

“Well, you’ve given me a whole meal, I think.” He turns in sync with me into Knockturn Alley, Ffionwyn bouncing along the filthy, dark path with her now very out-of-place sweets. More people are out now, and I call Ffionwyn back to me, “Come here, now; hold my hand.” Most witches and wizards here really are just trying to mind their own business, but still...

Mr Malfoy and I have both picked up the pace a little, since we’re now in an alley not suited to leisurely strolls with children in tow. He glances at me holding my brother with one arm now as Ffionwyn grips the hand of my other, still happily licking her lollipop. 

“You let the other two walk here alone? Forgive me, but — do you not worry for them?”

Nope.

“Hah! If anyone tries to mess with Gwenyn, she’ll probably just curse them off! Llon... he’s just too old for me to babysit him all the time, anymore.” It’s true, I can’t watch them every second of the day without going half-mad, which is why I leave the younger ones with the elder two, sometimes. I’m their sister, not their mother. 

“Quite understandable. Does your... aunt? What was her name?” 

“Onyxia” Ffionwyn pipes up from below us, surprising both me and Mr Malfoy. She’s actually paying attention?

I nod in assent to him and he continues, “Yes — _Onyxia_ —do you ever spend time with her?”

“Not if any of us can help it.” Ffionwyn nods in agreement. He doesn’t say anything to that.

We’re almost to the apothecary when Mr Malfoy suddenly slows his pace, and I watch as he nods briefly to another wizard who has a hard, shifty look on his face. The man nods back to Mr Malfoy, and I look forward again to avoid any eye contact with him; I’ve never seen him before, and he doesn’t seem the type of wizard I want to attract the attention of. 

I can sense Mr Malfoy looking at me to see if I’ve noticed, which I’m sure he knows I did, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he walks us to the door of the apothecary and once my little sister is beyond the threshold, he leans in almost conspiratorialy and says, “Listen, if you’re really going to go for this aconitor business, do let me know if you ever need assistance, Miss Burke. The ministry can be so finicky with its licensure, you know...” 

What in the hell...? “Alright — th-thank you, Mr Malfoy...”

I really don’t know how he would ‘assist’ me with getting a collecting license. Donius is going to have a mild stroke, or wet himself in delight if I tell him about this.

“Yes, well, it was quite pleasant talking with you, Miss Burke. A good day to you...”

I nod my head at him and he turns back towards Diagon Alley, and I notice for the first time that others in the alley are moving out of his way, the way they don’t often bother for anyone else. I wish they’d move the hell out of my way! 

Upon entering the shop I see Donius sitting at the counter with his pipe, going over a finished inventory and glancing up at me with deep suspicion in his eyes, “What were you lot doing?”

Afon’s definitely asleep, his body hot against my own and growing heavier. “I got the kids some ice cream, and your new friend ran into us.”

“Donius leans back on his stool, looking less angry than I thought he would be, “I see that.” He pauses for a drag. “Went to the sweetshop, too, looks like. Spending money like you’ve got it...”

I just stand there holding Afon, deciding whether or not to tell the old bastard it was Malfoy who bought the sweets — but I don’t say anything and march up the stairs to my brother’s bedroom.

*** 

I asked Donius if I could finally kill a chicken for supper, but he told me to hold off again. The potatoes are nearly gone, the bacon and sausage are also disappearing, and we’re running low on flour, as well. We have plenty of oats, funnily enough, and the hens still lay regularly, so we’re not _too_ bad off, but still... 

If one of the three bezoar goats had a kid, I could milk her for _my_ kids, but the two young billies and the dried up nanny aren’t good for that. When one of them is finally slaughtered for the stones in their gut, we’ll eat well. The garden is used only for ingredient growing, so we get nothing to eat from there.

Donius eats many of his meals at the pub, so he never seems to understand just how dire things get around here until I become so fed up that we end up in a fight. I’ve beaten him a couple of times, actually, but that’s little consolation for the fact that he still controls the finances. Today, I found out another reason to be worried about our living situation; 

Donius told me after returning from the Broken Bone that “The apothecary is costing too much. I borrowed a loan from the owner of the premises two years ago, and it’s been slow-going paying it back, my girl.”

I was sitting at the window in the kitchen, drinking his firewhiskey and trying to think about nothing, when he just came up the stairs and stood leaning against the railing. 

“But, I thought you owned this place?!”

“No. I’ve rented it since I started my business. Wasn’t too bad before the ministry started cracking down harder on us here (he means the denizens of Knockturn Alley).”

I brace for him to add my siblings and I to his money woes, but he doesn’t, surprisingly, “That shipment we just had’ll be the last large one we have for some time.” He continues to lean against the old, wooden railing and I wonder if he’s a bit drunk, or if standing in dim light makes him more relaxed and trusting.

“Thought you should know...” then he turns around and creaks his way back down the stairs, as if he hasn’t just dropped another whole pisspot of stress on me.

Perhaps I should grow a pair and reconsider the black market after all...?


	9. Pain and Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NON-sexual violence

Something’s wrong with Afon.

I don’t know what it is, but I think it’s something bad. The morning after I took the kids into Diagon Alley for ice cream, I finally took a proper look at the boy, and it’s killing me how I haven’t been paying enough attention to notice how his body is. He’s been toddling strangely because his legs are bowed, fucking _bowed_! Then his wrists and ankles are all swollen and distended. His chest looks — pushed out — like a bird’s; I think his head is shaped oddly, too. I really don’t believe he’s grown much over the past year, if at all.

I’ve no idea what’s wrong with him! Is it something I did to him? Did he have some weird accident that I never noticed? Did he eat poison? That’s a real possibility as we’re in an apothecary. Could it be — oh God in heaven — is it because his tad is a werewolf, directly? Ffionwyn might’ve had the same symptoms then, but I never saw anything like this in her! Would my brother having eaten poison be better?! Maybe it was something in Onyxia’s shop of cursed clothing and costume jewelry; could also be a curse, like if someone’s been messing with my family...

It’s been six days since I looked at him, and he hasn’t gotten any more — _normal_ looking. I know he wasn’t born like this; I was there, because Mam gave birth to her two half-werewolf babies in secret, thinking she’d be away from prying questions like, “Where is the father? _Who_ is the father?” Stupid woman; people notice a new baby, especially when the man is gone. Of course, she gave them the surname of her birth family — Cadwallader — so that when people who don’t know about my tad meet the little ones they won’t likely put two and two together, even if they take a glance at the werewolf registry which, unfortunately, Tad is on. 

“No sir, don’t know who their right daddy is — just some wastrel of a man who Mam shagged and left for another! Pattern, it is; they’re both unfortunate bastards, them! That’s why they’ve got a different surname to us!” Gwenyn’s good at that one. Perhaps t’was a good thing that Mam became such a slut — helps keep up the story, like.

Now I have to worry; if I take my little brother to St. Mungo’s, will whatever they find wrong with him give them cause to take him away? Will they take the other kids, as well? Hell, would that even be a bad thing... but wait — if it _is_ to do with Tad’s infected blood, what will actually happen to Ffionwyn and Afon? When you spill milk, it flows out all over...

The ministry officials who deal with werewolf related issues can all burn in Hell. Some of the healers can probably go with them. I remember when Tad was bitten; going to the hospital, trying to visit him as little children with Mam, and the officials assigned to his case looking all disapproving and on-edge. Taid was there and looked after us three — me nine, Llon only three and Gwenyn fresher than a daisy in spring. He never held it against Tad, afterwards. Obviously Mam didn’t, either. Tad acted much the same after he was bitten, except he was quieter. Only became a monster at the full moon, didn’t he? Taid said he was alright to stay with the family, he just had to go off somewhere else to ‘change’.

Oh, but the ministry had other ideas; ‘too dangerous’, they said. ‘No good with three little ones around’, they said. Better if Mam separated from him, said Taid needed to put his foot down — did he really want a son-in-law who was a werewolf living with his family? No, no and go to Hell, we all said. Didn’t take long for those bastards to get an order to have him removed from us though, didn’t it?! Wouldn’t hardly leave us alone even _after_ Tad had gone! Said they were ‘just checking’. Fuck ‘em all; I wouldn’t throw them a rope if they were drowning. 

Do I take Afon to see the healers? Do I do research on my own? That can be as dangerous as ignoring a problem, that last one. Your ignorant self thinks you’ve got one thing, when it’s something else entirely; so you treat what you _think_ you’ve got, only for the treatment to go horribly wrong. Should have gone to the people who knew better, shouldn’t you have?!

I still haven’t talked to Donius about it. I’m probably stupid for not doing so. He never bothers himself with the kids’ health, though — he barely even feeds any of us! Gwenyn actually has a wonky finger because she jammed it while falling down on the cobblestones, but apparently Donius just told her to ‘walk it off’ and ‘carry a cold butterbeer around’. She was eight and her right pinky is still too crooked; doesn’t move as easily as her other fingers. Fucking Donius! He couldn’t have put a splint on it?! 

How many little bones have been broken? How many fevers too high? Which body parts have stalled in their growth so the rest of their bodies can develop? How late or how early will puberty begin for the younger ones, if they continue to live here? Llon’s twelve, and there’s no indication that he’s getting _those_ dreams yet; no tell-tale stains on his sheets, nor on his clothes. I know what to look for — Mam told me straight when I started going through it all — that the boys have funny changes, too. For now, Llon is still like a little boy; puppy-fat hanging on his pink cheeks, voice still light and adorable. He doesn’t stink much, either. The third, fourth and fifth year boys could get _ripe._

There’s more I’m worried about aside from Afon — we’re also out of potatoes; the last of the sausage was rotted and the bacon definitely needs to be eaten soon — _all_ of it. Also, because the apothecary’s so low on money due to Donius’s inability to make smart choices, killing even one chicken is a no. Need them to sell, along with their shed feathers; the fact that they give us eggs is a plus at least, but my gut keeps begging me for the meat. We have a whole bag of oats, the eggs, and tea. With what flour we have left, I can make two loaves of bread, but four children eat a lot of bread, so that’ll be gone soon. Butter’s almost out, too. 

I wonder if I can trade one of the bezoar goats for a nanny goat with a kid; raise the kid for its bezoars as compensation for Donius? You can feed special ingredients to goats to get them producing bezoars more quickly, though the product will work slower than a regular bezoar. Better than no bezoars at all, though. Debt; dwindling food; sick children; and an apothecary that’s losing money. I don’t know what to do. 

Today is as hot and sunny as the previous days of this month. At least one thing I know to do is to fill the water for the goats and chickens as high as possible. The long tank of eels is set against the building where the shade stays longest, but it must be kept ever cooler as eels aren’t meant to live in the heat. The little buggers sell quite regularly, and not just for potions; some people still eat them, so maybe I should pull one out tonight and try it. God knows I’ve learned how to clean and process the wriggly things for special orders. Fried eel — could be good...

We’ve got snakes inside the shop as well. Tad cooked a viper that almost bit him, once. The venom’s in their mouths, so their meat is perfectly fine; I remember it tasting quite nice. In the shop we keep our snakes displayed in a tank by the wall, next to a large cage filled with rats. When a rat becomes pregnant, we separate the breeding pair and feed the pink, creepy little ratlings to the snakes. The rats don’t seem to notice much; they have babies so frequently. All of these are animals I could eat, just like if I died and they all got out of their cages, they could (and certainly would) eat me. 

I’m broken out of my culinary musings when a heavy rapping makes the old door shake in its hinges. It’s early evening yet, but the shop closed nearly an hour ago. Donius doesn’t exactly keep a normal schedule — he opens and closes as he bloody well pleases. The curtains are drawn over the windows so I can’t tell who it is, and some of the people who come in here are rather dodgy, making me wonder whether I shouldn’t ignore this one. 

The loud rapping ceases and is immediately replaced by an equally loud voice, “Oi! Burke! If you’re in there, come out here and visit your old friend, Walden!”

I surely don’t know anyone named Walden, and if Donius does, he’s not here to answer the man; gone off for a drink, he has. I asked a few days ago if perhaps _we_ should not _all_ be changing some habits to help the business along, but the look he gave me told me to shut my gob. For God’s sake, I didn’t mean that he should quit the drink entirely! I’m not _that_ uncivilized!

“Burke!” The man continues his incessant knocking — a big man, judging by how much the door is trembling at each knock. I dip my hand into my inside pocket where my wand is, and approach the door, “Mr Burke isn’t here!” 

Whoever’s on the other side of the door goes silent for a moment before shouting back “Who are you, then?” 

“I work here! We’re closed for the day, sir! He’s off! I’ll give him a message, if you want!” 

Another pause, then, “Are you that young lady who was at Borgin’s last week?” 

What? Who... Ohhh...

“If you are, I’ll thank you to crack the door open so I don’t have to shout in the street my girl!”

I suppose I might as well...

I open the door to that big, brawny wizard with the thin, black mustache — the rather rude man who interrupted my conversation with Mr Borgin about a job. Right now he’s standing almost directly on the threshold, his bullish body filling up much of the doorway. 

“Do you remember me?” Of course I do; a person like him tends to leave an impression...

“Yeah, I saw you with Mr Malfoy that day.” I wasn’t impressed, either.

“That’s all you remember of me, eh?” He looks at me all odd, like we should know each other better than we do, which is really not at all.

“Well I’m sorry, but no. Do you need me to tell Donius something?” I don’t like the feeling this man’s giving me — as if I want him to be unaware of my existence, but here he is, standing right on the threshold, looking straight into my face and clearly not intending to leave. My hand ain’t moving from my wand’s handle, that’s for sure...

“Were you going to hex me off your step, then?” The man’s eyes have noticed where my right hand is, and I don’t know whether we’re past the point of being more polite to each other or if I should continue keeping my guard up.

“I might... have.” He smirks at this. I wish he’d go away. 

“Listen, we need old Burke for a small job tonight, would you _kindly_ tell me where he is?” The way he asks, his eyes are all hard — if I refuse to answer him he’s going to be difficult — purposefully. 

“He’s at the pub, I think, but I don’t know which one. He just left and said nothing.” It’s the truth, isn’t it? He doesn’t always care to tell us where he’s at. 

Big Man rocks back on his heels, his expression all annoyed, “I don’t have time to go crawling around every pub in London looking for him! Can you do it?” 

What? 

“I mean, do you want to make some gold? It shouldn’t take long, but it’s worth quite a bit.” 

My guard is barely down by a centimeter, but I’m listening, “What kind of a ‘job’ is it?”

“I can’t actually tell you that, and your uncle knows that we need him for those types of things, but if he’s not willing to be around when we need him, we’re going to go to a wizard who’s more reliable. If you come with me right now he won’t have to worry about that.” He’s become more business-like as he’s spoken this, and I can’t detect any lie in his eyes. I do believe that Donius would have made an arrangement like this, especially due to his debts; but then why isn’t he prepared to be in a place where these — clients — can easily find him? My gut doesn’t trust this man, but the thought of gold...“How much am I getting paid?”

“Depends, now, doesn’t it lass? There’ll be gold in it for you, certainly — doesn’t mean you’re work won’t be judged accordingly! Now, if you’re coming, then we need to go, otherwise I’m going to someone else.” 

I take a good look up and down the alley, hoping to see Donius coming home, but of course, it’s too soon for that. “Just... where are we going?” 

He looks a bit impatient now, “Secret, it is — now get your cloak if your coming girl, otherwise I’ll leave without you!” 

With a strange knot in my stomach I turn and rush upstairs to my bedroom, grab my old cloak and rush back down the stairs. I feel I’m wrong going with this man somehow, but I also feel I’m wrong not to take his offer. I need money, plain and simple, but I move my wand from my breast pocket to a lower one where I can more easily grab it. 

“Well then, let’s be off!” He looks almost happy that I’ve decided to join him. 

We walk just up the alley and into a shadowed alcove by an old candle shop when Big Man suddenly grabs hold of my arm! I try to pull away, but his grip is predictably strong, “Stop that, girl! Don’t you realize I need to apparate you there with me?!” Apparating with a wizard who’s name I don’t even recall...? This isn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done — in fact, it’s probably the most Gryffindor I’ve ever been; those knobheads will fly into a tornado if they so much as _think_ there’s something going on inside of it! What is this big bull’s name, again? ‘W’ something...

“Right, on three, girl — one, two” ...and the bastard goes on the two-and-a-half mark! The world is black and the very atmosphere is squeezing my body, harder and harder until — ah! It’s done! Now where the hell am I? 

The man is still gripping my arm tightly; I tug it away as best I can, and he relents. “Come on.” He suddenly turns away from me and heads down a bare stretch of country road surrounded by trees — old trees, too. Where are we? I follow him quickly, the knot in my stomach returning as we walk in silence under ancient oaks that nearly block out the evening sun. It’s very quiet in this forest; the animals should be venturing out soon for their nightly forage. 

“Hey, where are we?” I hope he tells me...

“You don’t need to know, now keep walking!” The knot in my stomach, it’s growing bigger and bigger, and my heart beats faster. I’m beyond trust right now. “Why?” 

“I told you didn’t I? Bloody secret job, it is!”! He continues his brisk walk up the narrowing road, and I fall a few steps behind him. The air in my lungs feels stuck and I struggle to let it stream out through my nose. How much is gold itself worth? 

“Hurry up, girl!” The big man turns around only to see that I’ve stopped in my tracks, glaring up at him. He’s standing at a spot in the path that appears to dip down, where the trees and shrubs have grown closer together. My gut and lungs are screaming ‘know where you are; know what this is!’ My brain and spine are saying ‘you need the money, you _all_ need gold!’ 

“Where am I going?!” I don’t even pretend to hide my hand reaching into my pocket, though I don’t draw — yet. 

“Don’t waste any more of my time, girl! Come on _now_ , or else...” and his hand goes into his own pocket, one heavy foot steps forward and twigs snap beneath his weight; he stops before walking further, his eyes hard and his jaw set, “Let’s go...” the sound of leaves and branches being disturbed breaks the silence as a big, black shape flies straight across the path between the big man and me, then a second one passes over my head, and yet a third alights swiftly onto the ground near the man; ravens — three of them. Suddenly gut, lungs, brain and backbone are bursting in a hard knot of agreement, ‘get your Welsh arse away!’ And I turn hard and run. 

“Hey! What d’you think you’re doing, idiot girl! Come back here!” 

When I stop it isn’t to see how close he is behind me, nor to get my bearings — I’ve been concentrating hard on that God damned alley I’ve been forced to call home for three years, and just as I think I hear the big man’s loud breathing, I close my eyes and disapparate beneath the ancient, gnarled English oaks. 

***

I apparate back into Knockturn Alley with my eyes still closed — I’d know the shadowy air here any day. My body takes over before my mind can right itself; vomit rushes up and out of my mouth with no warning, coating the cobbles and burning my throat. I just crouch and allow my stomach to do it’s job until the sickening stench of bile and half-digested meat overwhelms me. I stand and lean against the brick wall I’ve apparated beside, closing my eyes and not caring who may see me. It feels like it’s taking ages for my head to clear; I don’t even know which part of the alley I’m in. It’s a struggle to breathe normally.

When I do open my eyes, I see an old, stooped witch or hag leaning on two walking sticks, hauling a large basket on her back; a hairy, black leg pokes through the holes in the wicker and prods the old woman’s head. “Not now, Edgar!” The woman croaks, eyeing me with as much curiosity as I am her. “Best get a strong drink for that lass, if they ain’t following ya soon.” And she hobbles past like I’m the hundredth vomiting witch she’s seen this month. 

My head has cleared, somewhat, but my nerves are charged and my eyes take in everything — like they’ve grown a size larger. I’ve never felt like this before — I’m not sure what to do about it but the old woman was right about one thing...

...I do need a drink. I don’t want to go back to the apothecary, nor do I want to stand here between two opposing alleys — I’m in the passage leading to Diagon Alley — so I throw my hood over my head and move my feet in the direction of the Bull. 

Knockturn Alley is in full shadow now as the sun’s nearly set, and the stench of bodily fluids is less overpowering even as I near the first pub, the Broken Bone, with its snapped femur dangling lazily on a chain instead of an actual sign. I like creative, I do...

... how am I noticing _that_ , right now? How is the world still so... _normal..._ after what just happened, with my nerves tuned up like a dial on the wizarding wireless? Shouldn’t I be running to my bedroom, crying in a panic?

The Bull is where whores, criminals and shady dealers in whatever-you-want like to go. I’ve been in a few times; it’s easier to be left alone in a place like that I’ve found; those types of witches and wizards tend to keep to themselves. Some nights do become rowdy — the place serves alcohol, doesn’t it? Above the door to the dimly lit inn is a very old, very large bull’s skull. Apparently the first wizard to own the place stuck the animal’s freshly severed head there and it never fell off. They say it hasn’t ever been charmed to stick permanently — it’s as if it knows it belongs there. I wonder what would happen if someone tried to steal it? Probably end up jinxed, they would!

I open the great, heavy door to a rush of human heat and smells; old beer, sweat and leather boots. I barely notice anyone as I walk trance-like to the bar where the old barman we call ‘Half Moon’ is pouring out an amber liquid for some hooded warlock. 

Half Moon Mahoney has one eye, one nostril and almost no teeth on the left side of his face, where the skin is all ruddy and pulled in odd places. No one claims to know how he got so burned, and Half Moon has never said.I belly up to the bar and wait for him to serve me — this place is busy already — and my mind takes over; was I right to have left the big man, like that? Did I overreact? Have I caused my family even more strife with my actions tonight? My gut is still knotted up and my brain is still jumpy, like. What the hell was going to happen in that old oak wood? The big man had said “ _we_ need Donius... _we’re_ waiting on him...” how many were there then, and where were they? Oh fuck — do I tell Donius about thi...

“Oi! Girl!” I start for a second, only to realize that Half Moon is standing in front of me behind the bar, holding his hand up like he’s been snapping his fingers...

”Yeah, sorry I... I...”

Half Moon stares intently at me, and I wonder what my face looks like, with all these crazy feelings going through me...?

“I need a firewhiskey.”

Half Moon leans away from me, “Right-o, girl.” The heavy brown bottle feels comforting in my hand, the familiar smell of char and fermented grain settling my heartbeat. Good ol’ firewhiskey — cures what ails ya. I hold the first sip in my mouth, letting it burn my gums before swallowing. My eyes still feel distended, as if afraid to blink. My stomach is no longer in a knot, but instead swells with nervousness every couple of breaths. I’m alive. I’m in the Bull. I’m alright — I think? ‘Nothing to do about what happened, so we’ll just have to wait and see the outcome. I must look quite a sight, because when I finish my bottle, Half Moon asks me if I’d like a shot on the house. Of course I take it, feeling grateful for a little sympathy, or whatever it is that moves the old barkeep. 

I still don’t want to go home, but it’s later now, and there’s still four kids I need to take care of. The kids, the kids, the kids; the bratty, noisy, ungrateful kids. What will happen if Donius’s own debts pile higher and higher? Will we all be thrown out by the landlord, whoever that is? Where would we live? Would I even have the kids, or would they be rounded up again? God damn this life!

I need to piss, so I go to the loo in the tavern, which is always a risk as those minging cows sometimes do their ‘business’ in there. Tonight when I pound on the door there’s no answer, so I rush in to answer nature’s call in what is — amazingly — a fairly clean toilet tonight. It feels both strange and good to do a thing so normal as taking a piss. I suppose the body can only stay shocked for so long. Any leftover feeling I have from my run-in with the big man goes completely down the drain when I open the door and there _she_ is — the great whore herself, Maris. 

Maris has been one of the blights of my existence in this cursed alley; hissing at me and whistling when I walk past, trying to get me to react. Donius has fucked her in his home more than once, even with us kids there! I hate this woman, and her feelings towards me aren’t ever very friendly. Right now, she’s blocking my way out of the toilet, with her arms held akimbo and her legs spread out; Christ, what now?!

She sneers at me as she asks “How’s your uncle?”

At another bar; go there, you sow’s cunt.

“I don’t know.” I try to brush past her, but she’s taller, meaner and not easily pushed aside. 

“Jesus fuck, get out of my way!” I snarl at her like I normally do, but she just leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms and relaxing into it. Her robe is open like always, her magenta dress dipping low between what I’m sure were once pert breasts.

“You’re outta school now, aren’t ya?” I don’t answer her, just glare at her to get her out of my bloody way. She leans back a little and points drunkenly over her shoulder, her wavy hair falling in her face, “These ones, back ‘ere” she’s pointing to two big warlocks sitting at the bar, deep in their tankards and looking shifty as hell, “They can fuck you right, chick.” 

I’m going to kill this woman one day, I swear to God... “I got better things to do, now would you please move?!” 

She does this to me all the time, asks me when I want to get fucked and don’t I know what I’m missing? Maris leans toward me now, grinning all drunk and hard and whispers, “Nah, c’mon! You have to do it sometime, don’t ya?! C’mon!” And she reaches towards me like she’s going to lead me out of here...

“Don’t touch me” I grit my teeth as I say this — I hate it when she tries to touch me. I finally shove her aside and she gives way, giggling and stumbling back until she hits the bar. I don’t wait to see what the other bar goer’s reactions are to this scene, not that they haven’t seen more interesting drama in this place. 

Outside, the air has staled more with the growing throng of drunkards and night owls, everyone’s bodies pressed by the warm July night. A small group of wizards standing near the Bull mutter loudly amongst themselves about what happened at the Triwizard tournament last month — Christ, but it hasn’t been a full month, has it?! Not for another week. They’re wondering how the boy, Cedric Diggory, might’ve died — _actually_ met his end. Dumbledore said that the Dark Lord — he-who-must-not-be-named — murdered Diggory. That boy was in my year, though we never spoke. Compared to my tad being forced away by the ministry, Diggory’s death wasn’t much of an impact on me; more of an odd jolt than anything. I hope he didn’t suffer, though — I don’t want to suffer when I die. 

While walking down the alley back towards the shop, I try to think about what my family told me about the Dark Lord, but it was so little. When I was seven years old, one day, I heard my grandparents talking about ‘those times’. They said the word ‘death eater, which I had never heard before. Later, I’d asked Tad what they’d meant, but he didn’t explain anything; he just said that the Dark Lord and his closest followers had been dangerous wizards and were now gone, then took me behind the house and whipped my arse with a belt. All I know is that the Dark Lord and his men are a subject not discussed. Dumbledore certainly disagrees with that idea! 

A lot of my classmates said that the Dark Lord — you-know-who or whatever else they called him — was dead! His killing curse rebounded off of little Harry Potter and — even rebounding — the killing curse is still the killing curse. Still, a few other students said that the Dark Lord’s powers were so great that he didn’t truly die, but they couldn’t quite imagine what might’ve happened to him. In the nearly four weeks since Diggory’s death, there’s been no official word about the Dark Lord returning from the ministry, and judging by the rankled gossip I’ve been hearing on the street, most witches and wizards don’t accept Dumbledore’s statement on the matter. I haven’t thought much on it, myself; got my own problems right in front of me, haven’t I? 

One of those problems is literally in front of me, sitting on the steps to the shop and looking right mad — Donius. He stands up all slow when he sees me coming, that hard, still look on his face when things have gone south where he’s concerned. It’s mostly dark now and sputtering old lamps are lit at a few corners, casting an eerie yellowish glow in his face. Has he really learnt so soon what I’ve done? 

I stop several feet away, and he doesn’t say anything to me, but stares quietly into my face, mouth set in a grim line. The humid air is making my cloak heavy and I remove it, wadding it under my arm before I step towards my ‘uncle’; I’m going to the Leakey Cauldron, I decide; I’m not dealing with his petty shit now, just because he didn’t make himself available; Bastard can... huh? Who else is by the shop...?

... my world is suddenly a painful burst as someone grabs my robe’s front collar and pushes me down, slamming a hard knee into my stomach — did I just hear my guts crunch, or is that the blood pounding in my ears? Footsteps sound, a hand grabs the back of my hair, pulling me towards the shop steps. Another hand dives into my robes for my wand. Donius grabs my arm to help drag me up to the door, my body throbbing from the other man’s (it’s definitely another wizard) knee-slam. Big Man? No; something’s different with this one. I try to jerk my head out of the stranger’s grasp, spitting on Donius while he fumbles with his own door; he clobbers my ear so hard that the whole left side of my skull feels like it’s ringing. The door opens and we burst inside the shop; a mass of heavy male breathing, my trembling body and the charged air of swift violence. 

Donius leads the other in throwing me down onto the floor, and I’m still in so much pain from that knee — ah, fuck — my stomach! I shake my head from the ringing, like a dog with a flea in its ear.

“What the fuck, girl? You’re goin’ to kill me, anymore!” Donius stands over me, anger flowing from him like a vapor; his friend stands near, waiting to assist. “What were you thinking, you little idiot?! Fuck!” 

I spit at his feet, unable yet to feel relieved that there’s no blood. A hand grabs my hair again and forces me up, pushing me against the counter. Now I start fighting, lunging for the nearest hunk of body I can get to to sink my teeth in, but a leg knocks hard against the backs of my knees, unbalancing me. Donius grips my hair more while the other man steps closer, “How do you want to do this?” 

“Just hold her arms down or something.” 

Assured steps round the counter and the man reaches forward to grab my arms; Donius kicks and elbows and curses me, helping his mate until my forearms are pinned well onto the countertop. I can barely comprehend anything outside my own fear and pain, and the rush of actions done to me without relent; I hear harsh rustling and metal clinking, then Donius rips my robe and my slip to make better use of the great belt he holds. Every strike he makes feels like a bludger hitting my back, the unknown wizard’s grip on my arms keeping me from wriggling away or falling to the floor. 

“Alright, I’m done.” Donius sounds far away; my back twitches painfully, waiting for another strike, but he is done. The other wizard let’s go of my arms and I slump hard onto the floor, crying and whimpering like a baby. Donius’s voice brooks no pity when I feel him kneel down beside me to speak, “You’re fucking lucky I was here, and not some other blokes.” He stands and says to his mate, “I’m going for another drink, I’m buying if you’re coming along.” 

The man is quite pleased, “Go on, then!” 

Their heavy footsteps finally lead away from me; one of them snuffs out the lamp hanging by the door, whether to be an arse or to be practical, I can’t say. I’m afraid to move yet, so I lay on my stomach where I fell, wishing I would pass out and wondering how my body isn’t falling apart at its joints. What did I do? What would I have done, had I followed the big man into the deep woods? 

These thoughts and the pain are my world right now; I just hope this is the worst of it. 


	10. Settling

It took five days, but my back has finished healing itself enough that I can bathe in salty water without tears falling down my cheeks. I found bruises in random places like my thighs and shins, places I don’t remember being hit — must’ve been a faster, rougher beating than I recall.

Donius took my wand and refused to give me so much as a drop of murtlap essence to sooth my injuries. He said if I was big enough to take a job that wasn’t mine and then back out, then I’m big enough to take the pain for doing so. Regular beatings like he and his unnamed friend gave me can be healed right quick with magic; if they’d punished me with their wands in someway, I’d be much worse off, even if Donius had relented to heal me. Magical healing can only do so much for magical wounds.

I don’t know if the kids ever saw me down on the floor of the shop; if they did, they haven’t said a thing. Gwenyn's disappeared most days to play and make mischief while I’m down, I suppose; I don’t know if the smaller ones comprehend that I was injured; Llon, meanwhile, has helped me dress and undress without being asked or saying anything about it. He’s seen me naked now, and I wonder if the knowledge of what I look like has him bothered more than the bruises and welts all over me. He actually managed to find me a sleeping draught, so I was able stay passed out for most of the nights and days, getting up to cook one simple meal for them, while Donius left them to their own devices like always.

It’s mid afternoon now, hot and miserable. I reckon I need to go to Borgin and Burke’s to ask Mr Borgin if I still have a job, seeing as I’ve been absent for so long. I open the wardrobe to search for a dress that isn’t too warm but not too shabby looking, as I want to make a good impression. Speaking of clothing, I threw the work-dress Donius caught me in into the fireplace; I knew I wasn’t wearing it again. My old cloak is missing, so it must have been lost on the street after they dragged me into the shop.

I strip down to my underwear — loose drawers like my mother and grandmother wore, along with numerous other witches. I can’t imagine wearing panties — they look so tight and uncomfortable. My brassieres have all had it; worn out and too small, anymore. Sometimes I don’t even wear one. Many witches still wear corsets as a form of breast support, and I’m thinking of doing so. Corsets can be expensive though, so I’ll need to be careful in considering that. I find the light, faded blue gown that, even without a matching outer robe, has remained quite appropriate for visits and about-towns. Even my over-grown breasts haven’t managed to ruin it, yet.

That’s just one of the things which marks witches and wizards from muggleborns — clothes. I remember that many students struggled to keep from tripping in their long, black school robes. Those of us who’ve been dressing ankle-length since birth moved differently. It’s so odd, seeing people who are supposed to be our fellows, but they act so... so... not like us! All of my dresses are long and loose; I pull them up and knot them at the waist whenever I need to tread through glop. We magic folk like to be covered, and I’ve never seen many of my fellow’s legs, upper arms or clavicles. One thing I don’t understand amongst many wizards, though, is their pension for not wearing trousers under their robes. In warm weather, yes, that’s understandable; but even I wear long pants in the cold. I suppose I just don’t like men’s ankles very much!

Once I’m dressed and my hair plaited nicely, I check on the two little ones in the sitting room. They’re playing with the black cat, Mouser, who lies content in a sunny patch from the window, lazily batting at the string Ffionwyn holds aloft. The two look peaky, which is saying something when they’ve spent most of their lives in this hole of a place. The bacon was shiny and sour smelling, so I tossed it in with the rats. I made bread last night when I awoke from the sleeping draught, so we have that. If Donius doesn’t give me money for more food after I visit with Borgin, a chicken will be gone from the yard. He can beat me again if he has to for that, but I have to feed the kids something other than oats and bread. I give Afon and Ffionwyn a hunk of bread each before going downstairs.

Donius is lounging behind the counter with his shoes up; smoking his pipe with not a care in the world. I’ve avoided him easily these past five days, and he hasn’t bothered with me since beating me with his mate. I suppose I should just ask him now for some food-money, before I leave the shop.

“We need food.”

The old man puffs on his pipe, “Really?”

It takes a lot for me to look at him directly today, “Yeah... fucking really.” I swear I’ll kill the most profitable-looking chicken just to spite him, if he refuses me money now.

“Come back later; I’ll give you something then.”

Yeah, right.

*** *** ***  
_Lucius_

“Everything was sorted much smoother than we’d thought it would be — by the end of the night, anyway. Found him at the Cauldron not long after the little bitch ran off. I don’t know why Macnair didn’t just look in the taverns for the old man; he’d told us he likes a drink of an evening!”

Lucius sipped his own firewhiskey as Avery downed the last of his, near to pissed as he often was before a meeting. They were sitting at a small table in the west wing of Malfoy Manor, soaking in the reddening light from outside. Lucius had been hearing odd things about the night when Donius was meant to assist with a small project, somewhere in the Savernake forest. Lucius had recommended the old apothecary, and a few others who knew Donius were in assent, but it seemed that Macnair had been too lazy to search for the proper person to begin the work, and instead had ‘convinced’ Donius’s young assistant to accompany him to the forest — young Branda Burke.

Lucius had already spoken to Macnair before Avery had come, “What were you thinking, you fool?” He’d all but shouted at his old acquaintance, still not quite believing that the idiot had thought bringing the girl to be a wise desicion! What did he think he was playing at?! Macnair, predictably, had struggled to find a good reason, “Well... I thought... seeing as she’s Burke’s girl and she works in Donius’s bloody apothecary, we could... test her out... as it were...”

So, the bullish executioner had figured out her identity, thought Lucius. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised; Walden Macnair and Nicander Burke had done a lot of work together, for the cause and for other purposes.

“Oh I’m sure, Walden — ‘testing her out’ should have gone perfectly well! Eighteen, just out of school, with no worldly experience — yes, she would have been of great use to you lot that night! Oh, and dare I ask... what did you _do_ to make her come along..?”

The executioner had rankled a bit at this, “I offered her the gold, just as we had with old Donius! I could have fetched a different wizard to help us, but you’re so insistent that we use him...”

Lucius had thrown his head back in frustration, “Macnair! It was early yet — I’ve been told as much — the man was at a tavern! You’re familiar with those places, aren’t you? You could have easily sought him out when the girl told you he was gone!”

Now, sitting with Avery, who’d been the one to leave the small group in the oak forest to search for Donius, Lucius wanted to know what had happened afterward; “So, what did you do to her, before you left for the woods?”

“Oh, we didn’t do anything too bad; we caught her in the alley and had to fight her into the shop, a bit. Donius did it the old fashioned way; whipped her with his belt and slapped her around a bit. To be honest she held up quite well, for a young girl.”

“Did she fight at all?” Lucius inquired.

“A bit. Caught her by surprise, we did — Donius got her wand before she could do anything with it. I think she spat on him once! I do wonder why she went with Macnair...”

Lucius thought the answer quite obvious, “Money, no doubt.” He remembered the hungry look in her eyes as he’d counted out the galleons for his purchases earlier that month.

Avery agreed, “No doubt.”

They sat in silence for a moment, enjoying the vibrant sunset over the grounds; at least Lucius was — Avery, it seemed, was more interested in imbibing his host’s firewhiskey than anything. “Could use a top up before I go, Malfoy...” he said, holding up his glass apologetically.

Lucius poured the man a short measure of the burning liquid, wondering if he shouldn’t warn Avery to stay off the stuff for the rest of the evening.

“Remember, we all expect a meeting tonight, old boy. We wouldn’t want you to overdo it now, would we?” Lucius half sneered, half frowned in consternation at the other wizard. They needed as many men as they could keep, their lot did. Messing about when there were expectations of them often — or, rather always — led to severe punishments, including death. This year, no one had been disposed of... yet. Hopefully it would remain that way, but if indeed someone did get themselves killed, it wouldn’t be his problem, thought Lucius.

“Have you heard any news on Slughorn’s whereabouts?” Inquired Avery, who had finally tossed back his drink and, Lucius was pleased to see, did not ask for another.

“I haven’t. Yaxley only said that the old fool’s house was empty of his presence. It appears that our old potions master has no wish to join our side. Pity; a powerful wizard as I recall.”

Avery thought about this before saying, “Was he really going to be asked to join us? Properly, that is? He always seemed such a bumbling old fool, to me.”

Lucius smirked before answering, “Well, Avery, the Dark Lord seemed to have no qualms in taking _you_...”

Avery smacked his empty glass onto the table, standing up and muttering about leaving his kit in his own house. Lucius walked him out, not bothering to apologize for the quip at Avery’s expense. Before reaching the front door, Avery had spoken up again, “It’s a shame all of our friends’ children are so young; we could use some new blood, don’t you agree?”

Lucius barely looked at his fellow as he gave a him short nod, “Perhaps... after a time.” And he held the door open for his ‘friend’ to leave. Once Avery had disappeared down the graveled drive, Lucius leaned against the doorframe, allowing the last of the day’s light to wash over him. He wondered if tonight, any of the others would have more news to share; new allies or foes to contend with? The Order would have reconvened under Dumbledore, of course. They needed to turn some aurors toward their own side; any other ministry employees could be useful as well.

Lucius breathed a deep sigh to settle his rushing mind; it had been nearly a month — one more day would mark the anniversary of the Dark Lord’s return. Lucius had finally begun to settle into the old rhythm of late nights, slow days and the ever-present state of excitement — mixed with the healthy dose of terror that all of the Death Eaters had learned to live under.

*** *** ***

Miracle of miracles, Donius actually gave me food-money when I returned from Borgin’s dusty dark arts emporium, where I still have a job, thank God!

“Sick, eh? Must’ve been that Donius-itis!” Sure enough was Mr Borgin, sir.

We have bacon and milk; cabbage and potatoes. I bought some yellow apples, as well as tinned pears. No flour, though — he didn’t give me enough money for that. It feels so good to have a stocked kitchen again; would’ve been a fine day all afternoon except for the old bastard’s answer to Afon’s strange affliction...

“It will pass; boy just needs more air.”

I wouldn’t trust Donius’s health advice as far as I could throw it, so I’m going to the library tomorrow to see if I can’t figure out what’s really going on with my youngest brother. I’m afraid of what it could be, and what the healing process might entail. Will it be complicated? Painful? Expensive, perhaps? Is he cursed, I wonder? So help me, if someone’s put a curse on the innocent little boy...

I roll over in bed — carefully — my back still itches and twinges when it touches anything, heedless of Gwenyn on my other side. The little brat stole the good, cool spot next to the wall, and without a wand I can’t place a cooling charm on our pillows or the mattress. Donius refused to return my wand today, saying it needed a ‘rest’ after so much practice at Hogwarts — what utter shite! Luckily, my family taught me to be useful without a magic stick, so I’m not so putout without it that I feel totally helpless — that’s how one girl described it after her old, old hand-me-down wand had finally had enough and incinerated itself in the middle of charms class. I can’t imagine feeling like I’m stuck with no recourse just because my wand isn’t with me. I’m a witch, and my taid always said that when a witch or wizard does something, it’s magic, but one can’t even finish a potion without waving a wand over it! The wand is sacred to our kind, plain and simple. For me, Donius hiding my wand is more a feeling of being taken down in the world, like a cruel kind of demotion.

Gwenyn snorts stupidly in her sleep and I kick her in the shins. Ffionwyn, with a full belly at last, sighs and farts in her sleep like an angel. I reckon I should bring her and Afon along to the library, maybe check out some books on their ABCs. God knows I can’t forget about that. Gwenyn’s lucky she can even spell her own name at nine years old! Llon’s lucky that he was already reading comics when we came to live here, but poor Gwenyn only knew the alphabet and how to spell ‘cat’, ‘dog’ and ‘me’. Sometimes, they go to Onyxia’s home to learn a little bit, but God help any of us if we speak Welsh there; Llon and I had cracked knuckles for months on end. I’m not sending the youngest two to the old cow. I think I’d throttle her if they came to me so injured.

I’m also considering where I might find my second job. There’s little jobs that need doing in society like cleaning, serving, entertaining, tutoring, pawning, smuggling, whoring...

I’ve got to get that damn collector’s license! Tomorrow, I’ll have to speak with Donius about possibly staving off my debts if I can provide him free merchandise to sell.

***

The next morning after breakfast, I clean myself and the littlest two as nicely as possible, ready for some quality time at the library. Stepping out of the shop, I decide to carry Afon on my hip again. Now that I’ve seen just how bowed his legs are, I know he can’t possibly be comfortable walking up and down these hard streets. I’m also a bit paranoid of other people seeing him and judging us. Our situation is already quite poor; I don’t want to worry about the more fortunate’s pitying glances at my misshapen brother.

The public library in Diagon Alley is a tall, narrow old building; three floors sit above the ground while three more hide below. The young witch behind the desk is reading what looks to be a plethora of salacious, unfit-for-children novels when I ask her for the health section.

“Second floor down, mind the staircase today — it’s been pulling its own steps in. We think someone puked on it yesterday.”

Who pukes in a library?

I thank the girl and walk Ffionwyn and Afon to the “Little Magical Books for Little Magical Minds” section near the entrance. I find the most colorful looking alphabet books along with another volume that lets them smell, hear, and feel the various pictures of animal and plant life; those ought to keep them busy. We check them out and head down the perilous, step-pulling stairs to the health section.

I feel I’ve hit the jackpot when I find a large tomes labeled “ _Ailments Mundane and Magical: A Comprehensive Guide to Serious and Simple Afflictions_ ”.

My attempt to discover what ails my brother is short-lived, however. As I skim the table of contents, my eyes feel as if they’re crossing. I blink hard and try to concentrate on finding the part that said “Children” and “Developmental Difficulties” but my eyes strain again, the words blurring in on themselves. I hold the book closer to my face, finally clearing my vision somewhat. ‘Children and Developmental Difficulties: Normal vs. Deficient’; page 79 — no, 78? I turn the pages to 78, only to realize that I’ve passed the beginning of the chapter, damn it! The words beginning on page _73_ are blurring and shaking when I begin reading. My head begins to hurt and I can’t continue. Perhaps another day?

I gather the little ones, returning the fancy animal and plant book to the witch at the desk, taking two of the alphabet books with us. As we trek our way back to the apothecary, I tell myself repeatedly, “I’m not going blind. Afon will be fine. I will find another job. We will leave Donius. I  
will find Tad.”

***

After dinner, with Donius still in the building and not off for a drink, I finally screw up the courage to ask him to halt any future debts to my name in exchange for unpaid work.

“Maybe”. He sits in a chair by the window, crossing his arms and leaning back with his boots on a footstool. No pipe tonight.

I try to reason with him, “I can get my license and get you free ingredients; you wouldn’t have to pay out for so many orders! You know I can find things well!” I sit backwards on a chair, looking at him levelly as possible. “I’ve got that job cleaning for Borgin; I’m trying to find more work to pay way my way out of here — for both my sake and yours — but if you keep adding money to my life here, then I don’t see any end to it!”

Donius isn’t moved yet, “You cost me, girl...”

“I’m not trying to cost you! I don’t want to owe you money! I want to get out of here and have a bloody fucking life! I want to settle with you fairly, but I’ve got them four...” I point out of the window overlooking the yard, where the kids are playing... “to look after and raise! I know I’ve got obligations to help you as long as they’re here, but all of this money on me is too difficult!” My blood pounds in my ears and my heart beats fast so that I actually grip my chest through my robe, “It’s suffocating me!”

“Shut up! Don’t be so Welsh!”

I can feel the flush on my face as I breathe deep to try and steady myself, “ _Don’t be so Welsh; don’t be so emotional... worried, overwrought taff_...” That’s what I’m often told when I become visibly upset; ‘Don’t act so Welsh, Branda’ — as if! Stupid, bloody _Sacsonaidd_ bastards...

“I reckon I’ll be pleased to take what you might give me with your license, but I think you should be held accountable for your keep as long as you live here. I’ll tell you what — as soon as you start getting me ingredients to sell that I don’t have to pay for, I’ll start subtracting from your debts. Might even stave off on adding to them.”

“Why can’t you just have me pay you every month, ha?! At least that way, I know how much less I owe you!”

Donius raises an eyebrow, “You want to start paying rent now, eh?”

“No! I do not want to pay you for anything in the future — I want to pay you for the debts that I have now! I told you I’d get a license to collect things and that I would give you what I collect! And I take care of the kids, don’t I? You never wash and clean up after them, or cook their food and teach them their alphabet! I, I do that! So will you please, please stop adding money to my name?”

Donius just sits there, looking at me like he’s rather enjoying himself.

“I want fifty galleons a month from you. If you don’t make the cut, I’ll add thirty percent interest. I don’t care if you think that’s fair or not — might even keep you out of trouble, scrounging all that gold up for me...”

I rarely get into trouble, unless it’s picking a fight with him. That reminds me...

“I need my wand, you know...”

He’s gotten up to go elsewhere, but he turns to stare at me all intent-like, as if he’s trying to decide whether or not I deserve it back after five days of pain and ache.

“It’s atop my bloody wardrobe, girl. Go and get it yourself.” And he goes back down the creaking stairs to grab his cloak to go buy himself some drink.


	11. Macnair, Crabbe, Avery and NEWTs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NON-sexual violence; Implied Threat

My NEWTs have arrived!

We’re all sitting at the table upstairs, eating a late breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast when a large, scruffy brown-owl lands on the windowsill, carrying a small wad of post. Donius busies himself with untying the letters from the rather nippy owl’s leg. I’m swigging down the last of my coffee when he tosses the envelope at my nearly empty plate; I pick it up quickly to keep it from grease stains, “Good luck” he says with little interest before returning to his food.

I turn the envelope over in my hands, my stomach churning nervously. I think I did alright... my OWLs were quite good. I need to have done well in Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures and Potions; that’s all one really needs to become an aconitor, and definitely to be granted a license to collect any plant or magical creature rated xxx or greater.

“Well, aren’t you going to get on with it, then?” Donius’s voice makes me jump in my chair; I collect my plate and rise, parceling out the remaining food to my siblings. I take in steady breaths to try and calm my growing nervousness; if I didn’t do as well as I need to have done...

“Oi, what’re you so worried about, twat-head? Open up the bloody letter so we can see if you got your tramp cer’fication!”

I pour Gwenyn’s milky tea onto her plate (“ _Betch_!”) absentmindedly, not even caring about the wasted food. I pace a few times around the sitting room-kitchen, and by the time Donius stands up to open the shop mid-morning, I’ve decided to wait a little while and pocket the envelope into my black work-dress.

Donius just chuckles and shakes his head at me, “Good Lord, now _I’m_ going to be wondering all day...”

We both go down to the shop to make ready for any customers. Another hot day, it looks like. When I pull the drapes open I see two wizards standing by our window, leaning against the building. One is quite unremarkable, of average size and nearing his 40s; the second, I realize with a jolt, is the big man who took me into the oak wood last week! What in bloody?!

Immediately I spin around to run back up the stairs, Donius looking at me all confused until he sees the two men through the window. He smirks, “Oh calm down, girl; those two won’t hurt you.”

Bleeding Christ, Donius!

The big man must’ve realized that the curtain has been pulled away, because I suddenly hear his voice through the door, “Hey, you’ve opened! We need supplies! Let us in!” He knocks on the door, less furiously than he did last time, and he sounds like he’s in a good mood, rather than in a hurry. Still, I want nothing to do with him. I try to brush past Donius, but he stops me with a hand on the back of my neck, “For God’s sake, just go to the back and organize something.” He pushes me through to the back room before opening the door.

“Gentlemen, good morning.” I hear Donius greet them cooly as heavy footsteps enter the shop. The door to the back room is open just a crack, so I can hear everything that happens in the shop’s front.

“Good morning, indeed! Don’t you open on time, old man? It’s nearly lunch!” I recognize the big man’s voice, alright. I wonder how he’s so familiar with Donius, and what sort of business does he want with him?

“A wizard may run his business as he pleases, Macnair. Now, what is it that you need, today?”

Macnair — that must be the big man’s surname. I think it’s a pureblood clan...

“I need ingredients for healing potions; good ingredients.”

“There’s many kinds of healing potions, Macnair.” Donius almost sounds like he wants these men gone. Why then would he be working so closely with them?

“I reckon I’ll take supplies for a blood replenisher;  
probably need an antidote for swelling...” so he needs potions for serious injuries, then?

I hear the scratching of a quill on parchment; Donius must be listing the ingredients he needs to gather. After a moment he speaks up, “Alright I’m going to go look in the back for some of these.”

He enters the back room, and when he sees me standing in the corner nearest the door he gives me a stern look that says “don’t bloody move too much”. He begins searching for whatever ingredients are on his scratched out list, while I listen through the wall to what the two wizards are doing. Low mutters and stifled snickers reach my ears; suddenly there’s the sound of a shoe stepping and sliding across a piece of parchment on the floor.

“Oops. Someone dropped their mail, looks like!” A different voice, the other wizard with Macnair; I can hear him reach down to pick up whatever he’s stepped on, “What do we have here? _Branda Patreva Burke_ , ooooh its got a seal from the Wizarding Examinations Authority!”

My stomach flips as I check my pockets for the envelope with my NEWT results, but sure enough, I come up empty. Bloody..! They’d better put it down!

“Hah! Must be that girl’s NEWTs — I wonder what we’ve got here...?” That’ll be Macnair’s voice; I actually hear one of them slitting the envelope open...!

“Hey! That’s mine!” I storm into the front of the shop with my hand held out; both men look surprised, but that quickly changes to amusement, and Macnair lets his enjoyment be known first, “Hallo there, girl! We found this for you...” he holds my letter up for me to see clearly ...”It looks like your final exams have come in, let’s have a look, then!”

“No, I’ll take that, thanks.” I step forward once more, my hand still out.

Macnair and his friend look at me for a moment, then glance at each other with a smirk passing between them, “Ah come on now, it’s always easier to read these with friends!” He continues to tear the envelope open, and I feel the blood rushing to my head in anger, “Fuck _off_! Give it over man!” I rush at him to grab it myself and retreat to the back room where Donius is still looking for ingredients, but Macnair leans back with my letter held over his head, dodging me with a gleeful bark, “Aye now, relax my girl!” His eyes are glinting with excitement and his face has broken into a sneering kind of pleasure — who is this bastard?

“Here now, steady.” I jump suddenly as the other wizard has come up behind me, his hands gently patting my shoulders, and I swear my stomach leaps into my chest. I angrily bat his hands away, and he holds them up in a mock sign of peace, his wide grin betraying the fun he’s having. I turn back to Macnair, whose now pulling the parchment with my scores out slowly, ever so slowly, trying to tease me into a frenzy.

“Just give it back, you bastard!” I walk toward him again, but his mate grabs me and loops his arms through mine, effectively holding me back. It’s frightening, realizing just how strong a grown man is against my own body.

“Easy girl! We’re just going to have a quick look now, eh Macnair?”

Macnair is looking at the parchment with a look of great pity, “Let’s see; T, T, T, another T, oh look, a D!”

“Fuck off!” I curse them again, struggling hard against the bellend holding me. “Donius! Donius!” I do believe this is the first time I’ve ever called out for the old bastard to come and help me.

Macnair looks away from my scores towards the back of the shop, unconcerned and smirking. Donius surely doesn’t come out, so either he’s somewhere he can’t hear me or, more likely, he’s ignoring me. The bell above the door clangs loudly and we all freeze momentarily, but the two idiots soon relax back into their current activities; the wizard who’s walked in is a large one; both in fat and in muscle. He has a familiar face...

“Oi, Crabbe, we’ve got NEWTs results here!” The man holding me greets Vincent Crabbe’s father without a hint of worry in his voice; if that boy’s father is anything like his son, he’ll be right happy to watch my torment. Indeed, Crabbe the elder doesn’t appear to be bothered in the slightest. “NEWTs, eh? Bloody waste o’ time, I a’ways thought.” I suppose it’s good to know someone in that family thinks.

I try ramming an elbow into my captor’s rib cage, but he’s got a good hold on me. He moves towards Macnair, swinging me around so that I can’t see my scores while they both can. “Tsk, tsk. Should’ve studied at the weekend, missy!” The unnamed man chides wickedly, and I growl in my effort to pull away from him. Just then I hear a third voice from the stairs, “Hey! Let go of my sister!”

Oh God, Llon has come down to see what the commotion is about, his round face bright with righteous indignation as he hops down the stairs, two at a time, to come to my rescue. The three wizards turn to look at my brother, the amusement plainly written in their expressions.

“Here now, what’s this?!” Cries Macnair. Llon makes for my direction, his fists out and ready to fight, but Crabbe puts a great, meaty hand out to stop him, “Woah, now la’! We’re jus’ tryin’ to see how your sister did, is all! Nobody’s gonna hurt ‘er, right lads?”

But Llon doesn’t care, he lunges past Crabbe and tries to pry the still unnamed wizard off of me; “Llon, stop. Don’t worry about it.” He isn’t listening to me either...

Crabbe comes up and pulls my brother back, and when Llon tries rushing at us again, all Crabbe has to do to stop him is to place one big hand on Llon’s head and hold him at arm’s length. Llon’s fists try to hit the great lump in front of him, but his arms merely swing in midair as the huge twat holds him steady. The wizards all laugh heartily — having a right good time they are! My temper’s about reached its zenith, “God — fuck all of you, you cunts!”

“Oi now! You’ve got a mouth on you, eh?” The man still holding me laughs; I try kicking and stomping at him, but it’s no good. Macnair seems to have satisfied himself with my letter, as he begins to advance on me...

“Donius! DONIUS! Get out here, you old bastard!” My blood is roaring through my body, now; I’m feeling more panicked by the second — what the hell is wrong with these people?

“Get off of me!” I nearly pull the man forward as I try to avoid Macnair, and he tightens his grip; my arms are squashed against his chest now.

Macnair comes right up to me, speaking directly into my face, “Steady now, lass! Maybe ask nicely and I’ll give you back your scores, here.”

“Lick my arse! Cunt!”

“Aye now, you need a bloody lesson, girl!” Macnair looks right pleased with this situation, and suddenly he starts grabbing at my legs, trying to lift one up with his empty hand as the other still holds my stupid NEWT scores.

I kick at him as hard as I can, “Fuck off, fucking idiot bastards! Donius, HEY!”

Donius has walked back into the shop, standing behind his counter to overview the files and bundles of ingredients he’s gotten. He barely glances at us. Once the men all realize he’s not interested in what’s going on, they go back to harassing me and my brother — not that they stopped for more than a second! Donius, you dog’s arse!

“Get off of me!”

“Come on now, easy!” Macnair gets a grip on one of my ankles and manages to loop the other in his arm, still gripping the envelope in its hand. Out of the corner of my eye I see Llon being restrained by Crabbe, one thick arm slung across the boy’s chest as he tries desperately to shake the big wizard off. I yell at the man while fighting to kick Macnair in his face or throat, “Let go of my brother, hog’s cunt!”

“Oi! You really do need to learn some manners, girl! Where’d you learn such language anyway?” Macnair’s pleasure keeps growing and growing, and I’m certain him and his mates don’t care a lick about my manners. I can practically feel the man holding me smile more broadly; this is top quality entertainment in their eyes, I’ll bet. Donius is still looking over the contents on the counter; might as well be absent, the twat!

Macnair and his friend continue to laugh while I struggle in their grip, cursing and yelling them, “Get off me! Let go of me, you bastards! God, your mother’s were fucking whores, you —!”

“Ooooh, I think we’ve made her angry, Avery!” Macnair now has my legs firmly under his arms; his hands pinch my muscles to make me jerk and yelp.

“FUCK YOU! GET OFF ME! GET OFF! CUNTS!”

I barely hear the bell clang when the door opens again...

“WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?!”

Suddenly, Macnair drops my legs, the loud _thunk_ of my boots hitting the floorboards reverberates around the shop as the men have all stopped laughing. Avery let’s go of me, pushing me into the counter. I feel a great rush of air enter my lungs.

Lucius Malfoy is standing in the doorway, surveying the scene with a hot look in his normally cold eyes, his mouth set in a grim line. He shuts the door behind him, “What, I say, is going on in here, _gentlemen_?”

Macnair and the man called Avery reign in their mad grins; Avery shifts slightly from one foot to the other. I look towards Crabbe, but he’s let go of my brother, who rushes up to stand in front of me, glaring daggers at the men. I place my hands on his shoulders and gently move him beside me, knowing he’ll probably just fight to stay between the bastards and me.

The air in the shop is no longer charged, and the sudden, still tension could be cut with a knife.

Macnair speaks up, “Just having a laugh, we were.” He looks at Malfoy with not a little trepidation, but the mischief is still a glint in his eyes.

Malfoy looks between each man before resting his eyes on me, “What is going on?”

“They took my letter.” Macnair is still holding my NEWTs in his hand. I jerk my head towards him, my heart still racing. Malfoy turns towards the big man, his eyes full of questions.

“Awe, we were just teasing her a little! She’s been right rude to us, too, hasn’t she?” Macnair looks to his friends for support, and they all nod in assent. “She’s been calling us cunts and idiots and...”

Malfoy adopts a look of feigned sympathy, “Oh... she’s been calling you a cunt, eh Macnair?”

The man in question seems much more put off, now. “Well, bloody...”

“I don’t care what she’s been calling you lot, because you probably were cunts! Now give me the bloody letter!” Mr Malfoy holds his hand out, but Macnair doesn’t move fast enough for his mate’s waning patience. Malfoy snatches it away so quickly that Macnair hisses loudly, shaking his fingers from a deep parchment cut. “Serves you right!” Chides Malfoy, unsympathetic. He hands me the envelope without looking at me, his eyes grazing the room.

I thank him quickly and take my brother through the back room and into the yard, but not before one of the idiots asks, “Aren’t you going to share with us, love?!”

As if!

“Get fucked!” I yell over over my shoulder, Donius telling me to watch my mouth now that his favorite customer is here. Useless old dog! I sit down on a barrel and open my results while Llon walks himself around the cobbled courtyard, hands shoved in his pockets.

 **Branda Patreva Burke has achieved:**  
Ancient Runes — E  
Care of Magical Creatures — O  
Charms — E  
Defense Against the Dark Arts — E  
Herbology — O  
Potions — O

As usual, the types of magic which require the littlest wand work have my best results. Astronomy needs almost none, but I found star charts much less interesting than Ancient Runes and their hidden meanings; Defense Against the Dark Arts is a must, as I live in the darkest bloody alley in wizard Britain! Besides, it was always kind of fun to see what each new teacher would bring to the table. Charms is quite useful, but I quit Transfiguration as soon I could; the actual wand work itself wasn’t too bad, but the essays on the theories behind different transformations! I don’t care what the bloody theory is as long as the spell is of use! Care of Magical Creatures was great, until Hagrid was given the post. Bless Hagrid, he works hard to keep the grounds well, but as a teacher — he was damn near useless. I’m still proud of my grade, though. Herbology is a must for aconitors, though I like creatures much more than plants; Potions is just dead useful to anyone witch or wizard — I don’t understand why some don’t take it more seriously.

My eyes have begun to strain again, and I rub them with my thumb and forefinger. Despite the uproar in the shop only minutes ago, I do feel a bit better. I’ve passed what I needed to pass, and with flying marks! I can apply for that damn license, now! I let my head fall back against the wall behind me, closing my eyes and letting the coolness of the stones soak into my skull. My breathing’s evened out; my blood is no longer pounding in my ears. I hear Llon kicking rocks across the ground, but he stops and I hear a throat clear above me...

My eyes snap open and I jump off the barrel, but it’s Mr Malfoy. He puts a placating hand on my shoulder, “Sit down, Miss Burke — I insist.” I do as I’m bid and he stands in front of me. Llon has run over to stand beside me, his small arm thrown across my shoulders. He glares up at the tall wizard, daring Mr Malfoy to touch me. Oh, Llon!

“Easy boy, I’m only here to offer my apologies.” He smiles amicably, offering his hand to my brother. Llon isn’t sure if he should take it though; I see the confusion in his too-young face. I catch his eye and nod my head towards Mr Malfoy, schooling my face into a more calm expression. Llon hesitantly shakes hands with Mr Malfoy and I see his small, ruddy paw try and grip his elder’s larger, more pale hand like a man; Mr Malfoy takes this in stride. “How old are you, lad?”

“Twelve!” He tries to answer fiercely.

“Twelve? Going into your second year then?” Mr Malfoy clasps his hands behind his back now, and I’m sure he’s _scourgifying_ his right — a twelve year old boy rarely keeps his hands very clean...

“That’s right.”

“And what house are you in, boy?”

“I’m in Ravenclaw.”

I look at him sharply, reminding him of his manners, “ _Sir_!”

Mr Malfoy raises his eyebrow, “A Ravenclaw? Some differences in the family, eh?”

I speak up here, “Our grandfather was a Ravenclaw. Got a lot in our family.” It’s true, there’s a lot of Ravenclaws and Slytherins on my Mam’s side, along with the odd Hufflepuff. I don’t know of any Gryffindors, though.

“Well — I suppose — _wit beyond measure is a man’s greatest treasure_ , eh boy?”

Llon looks confused, “Huh?”

I stifle a laugh with some difficulty. Oh, Llon! “Not in this one, Mr Malfoy!”

“Ah, well... we each of us have our own talents, haven’t we? Do you mind if I have a word with your sister, boy?”

Llon’s face darkens a bit, but I pull him down and whisper that I’m fine. He still doesn’t look convinced, so I try a different tactic, “Llon, I need you to take Ffionwyn for a walk in Diagon Alley, anyway. She’s been wanting to go look at the animals in the pet shop.”

“Now there’s an idea! Come here, lad.” Mr Malfoy beckons to Llon, and he approaches the man curiously, but I can tell he’s still trying to act tough. Mr Malfoy reaches into his pocket and counts out several gold galleons — for what?

“Why don’t you take your siblings to that little sweet shop and buy yourselves a few treats? I seem to recall there are four of you... is that correct, boy?”

Llon’s face has brightened considerably, but I still try to make objections; Mr Malfoy waves them away, adding a few silver sickles for good measure.

“Do you suppose that’ll be enough?” He asks my brother as he places the heavy pieces in my brother’s hand.

“I reckon, sir!” And the little beggar dashes into the shop to get his sisters and brother for more sweets than they’ll be able to eat in a month!

Mr Malfoy catches the look on my face, “I insist, Miss Burke. Besides, I think your gallant young man deserves a little reward.” I suppose he’s right...

“Thank you for them, sir.”

“No trouble... now, Miss Burke,” I’m taken by surprise when he reaches for my hand, holding it delicately in his own and placing his other atop it. He looks directly into my eyes with what I can only describe as a hard sort of sincerity, “I really must apologize to you, on behalf of my... er... associates; there behavior towards you was quite dreadful. I do hope it was nothing worse than what I saw...”

That does make me wonder; how far would Donius have let them go? Were they thinking of doing other things to me? At the front of the shop... perhaps not..?

“It... it wasn’t that bad, sir. I... I’m fine. Llon’s fine”. I gently pull my hand from his grasp, feeling embarrassed.

Before Mr Malfoy can speak again, there’s a commotion in the back of the shop as my three siblings come crashing through the door into the yard, Llon holding a wailing Afon while Gwenyn tries to pry the money from her big brother’s grasp.

“What are you doing?” I ask them incredulously. Can’t they act civilized for just once in their lives?

“Twat here won’t share the bounty!” Gwenyn continues to pull at Llon, who dumps Afon into my lap, “We can’t take Afon, he’ll be too slow, and he’s crying anyway!” He turns around quickly to avoid arguing with me, Gwenyn hot on his heels.

I call out, “You’d best share that money equally, Llon! There’s more than enough for each of you!”

Ffionwyn lingers to pat Afon on his leg and gives Mr Malfoy a shy wave — she remembers he gave her a galleon for that fancy lollipop. Mr Malfoy winks at her and she runs back into the shop to follow the other two.

“Charming thing.” Murmurs Mr Malfoy before turning back to me; he finds me attempting to quiet Afon, who seems to be in need of an early noon nap.

“Shhhh, shhhh! Come on now!” I bounce him on my knee a bit, and I notice Mr Malfoy looking over my brother, his cool eyes taking in the old baby’s robe he’s dressed in — we don’t bother with trousers, it’s not like the boy needs them yet. Does he see how strangely Afon’s head bulges? How his joints swell? Afon’s tears don’t abate, so I cradle him to my breast and rock him to and fro, finally settling him into less fretful cries.

“How old is this child, again?” asks Mr Malfoy finishing his covert appraisal.

“He’s three. He was born in March.” The little thing has stopped fussing, and at the sound of another voice, turns to peer up at Mr Malfoy. Afon has the same wide, green eyes as me, his dark hair already thick like Tad’s. His great, long eyelashes look like feathers against his cheeks.

“Oh yes, three...” the man peers back at the little boy, now openly studying him, ...”forgive me if I’m too forward, but I thought he was younger... was he born early?”

I don’t blame him for noticing how stunted my brother is, and while the man clearly has no qualms lording himself about in other people’s lives, he’s at least being civil.

“No. He just lives _here_.”

Mr Malfoy smirks at that, nodding his head in agreement, “Indeed. Knockturn Alley is hardly an ideal place to raise children.” Oh, I hope he doesn’t start asking more questions from there!

“So you’ve gotten your NEWT results, I see. I hope everything is satisfactory for you, Miss Burke!”

I perk up a bit, “Yes, very.”

Afon suddenly twists in my arms, unwilling to let sleep take him now. I put him down and tell him to go play around the yard. Mr Malfoy watches him toddle towards the small coup with the chickens; the boy’s bow-legged toddling is painfully evident to me, but can Mr Malfoy see it through the child’s long smock?

He turns back to me, “Will you wait here a moment, Miss Burke? There’s something I must attend to...” I nod my head in assent, wondering why he would seek my permission to leave the courtyard. A moment later I hear men’s voices in the shop, one stern and goading. The next thing I know, Macnair, Crabbe and Avery — followed by Mr Malfoy — have all filed into the yard. The three idiots appear somewhat cowed... what in the world?

Mr Malfoy clears his throat harshly, and Crabbe is the first to speak, “Sorry, love.” The big lug can’t seem to meet me in the face as he apologizes. I’m not sure how to handle this, at all! Macnair actually steps forward to extend a hand towards me, “Truly, Miss Burke, I apologize _deeply_. This summer heat, you know...” I hesitate to shake his hand, not feeling the sincerity he so clearly thinks he’s conveyed, but I don’t want to cause any more problems in this place than I’ve already got, so I take the man’s heavy hand with an “Hm-hmm”, privately wishing him ill. The third man, Avery, steps forward as well. He glances furtively from Malfoy to me, and he hesitates for a moment... “Come on Avery! Get on with it!” Macnair seems to be struggling with impatience. Avery extends his own hand to me, and I take it like I took his mate’s; ill-wishes and not a smile to spare. “Miss, I am sorry. I hope your NEWTs are all to your liking.” Something about his voice makes my brain itch, like I ought to recognize it, somehow...

“There now, gentlemen; that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Mr Malfoy steps forward, eyeing the men with a sneer. Macnair ignores him and asks me, “Read your scores yet, girl?” Good God, but this warlock!

Mr Malfoy gives him a dangerous look, “ _Macnair_...”

“Yeah... I have now...” I’m about to add ‘no thanks to you’, for good measure, but Crabbe interrupts, “Go on then, lass; what’d you get?”

Is he serious?

Mr Malfoy’s in agreement, “ _Really_ , man?!”

A new voice makes itself known, “I’d quite like to know what you’ve gotten, as well.” Donius leans against the threshold, looking at me curiously, not a hint of concern on his face. Twat.

Macnair’s grin has returned, “I saw her scores — quite impressive, actually...”

Oh, bloody! Well if he’s going to reveal my results anyway...

I stand and hold my letter up so there’s no doubt that I’m not lying, clearing my throat for dramatic effect, “Alright you lot, Ancient Runes has an ‘Exceeds Expectations’...”

“‘Oo the bloody ‘ell needs Ancien’ Runes..?”

“...Shut up, Crabbe!”

I continue on, “Care of Magical Creatures, an ‘Outstanding’.”

“ _Ought to’ve been easy with that half-breed in charge_...” this from Donius.

I roll my eyes, tamping my rising temper, “Charms, I’ve got an ‘E’...”

No one has anything to snark about here — I guess most people see charms as worth something. “Defense Against the Dark Arts is an ‘E’...”

“Wonder what that curriculum was like, last year...”

The three men erupt in snickers, and I catch Malfoy giving them a quelling look; I don’t understand the joke. Donius has a strange look on his face, like he neither understands nor misunderstands. Well, Mad-Eye Moody is Mad-Eye Moody, after all...

Donius sees the confusion on my face, “Go on, girl.”

“In Herbology I’ve got an ‘O’...”

“ _Herbology_? I couldn’t escape that class fast enough!”

“And _finally_ , I’ve got an ‘O’ in Potions.”

“Excellent!”

“At least that one’s useful...”

Mr Malfoy steps forward, “Congratulations, Miss Burke.” He holds his hand out to me, and I take it readily, if somewhat embarrassed. They’re only my final grades, aren’t they?

Avery has something to say, “If you were so good in Defense Against the Dark Arts, why didn’t you try to take out your wand, back there?”

The courtyard falls silent as all eyes fall on me; I feel a horrible jolt at the man’s question — why _didn’t_ I try to grab my wand? It’s in my pocket, been there all morning! Shame floods me as I look anywhere but at the wizards staring down at me; I don’t know what to say...

“She’s just finished with school. She’s probably not accustomed to the freedom of using magic outside of Hogwartz.” Once again, Mr Malfoy stands up for me. Donius, however, is less understanding, “Girl turned seventeen more’n a year ago! Didn’t have any trouble pulling her wand out then!”

Macnair’s smile broadens, “Scared you, didn’t we girly?”

Everyone waits to see what’ll happen next; I fold my NEWTs into my pocket and walk up to the big, bull of a man that is this Macnair, “I could pull my wand out now...”

That gets the other two idiots excited, but Donius growls a warning at me, “ _Girl_...”

Mr Malfoy on the other hand, concentrates on his friend, “Macnair, _don’t_ — have you settled with Donius, yet?”

Just then, Afon, who I’ve completely forgotten about, starts crying from the small goat pen. He’s got himself stuck between the beams in the fence, and one of the goats is nibbling curiously at his smock. Grateful for the distraction, I run over to free the poor child, “Sorry Afon! _Get_!” I chase the goat away and pull my brother through the fence. I turn around and the men are all still in the courtyard, watching curiously. I reckon now is a good time to leave and finally end our little drama, but Macnair is in my way as I walk towards the door, “Another one, eh? You running an orphanage here as well, old man?”

“They’re my cousin’s children. I’m their guardian for now.”

The three idiots are all peering at Afon. “Glad I don’t have any of them to bother with!” Exclaims Avery, his voice once again sounding familiar.

“Little blighters, all of ‘em. One was enough!” This from Crabbe, who I’m sure most are happy has only one child!

Macnair leans closer to my brother, who begins fussing and hides his face in my neck. “Awe now, lad! Come here! Give your new uncle a smile!” And the big bastard tries tickling my brother beneath his chin, but Afon brushes his hand away and hugs me tightly.

“Stop making the baby cry, Macnair!” Laughs Avery.

Crabbe interjects, looking impatient, “Are we gonna stan’ ‘round ‘ere lookin’ at some baby, or are we get to business?”

“Yes, we ought to be leaving soon, I think we’ve all imposed upon Mr Burke’s establishment quite long enough.” Mr Malfoy gestures for his mates to exit the yard, and Donius steps out of the doorway to let them through, while Malfoy remains behind to see each man leave. He looks to Donius, who gives me one last look of warning before turning around and reentering his shop.

“After you, Miss Burke.” Mr Malfoy gestures for me to go ahead of him, so I step into the back room with Afon still clinging tight around my neck. I can hear Macnair and Donius haggling over prices up front. Mr Malfoy stops me before I climb the back stairs to the hallway above, “Miss Burke — again, I apologize for earlier.” In a second, the man’s face has turned serious and he leans closer to me, his hard gray eyes boring into mine, “Listen girl, should you encounter trouble with anyone in the future, do let me know, won’t you?”

My breathe stops and my eyes don’t blink; for several moments, I don’t know what to think. He offered to ‘help’ me to obtain my aconitor’s license before, now he’s offering to... to do what, exactly? I’ve come to realize that Lucius Malfoy is a powerful wizard, and not necessarily in just magic; Donius told me no stories, all those weeks ago.

Finally, I whisper a low “Thank you” to him, nodding my head in respect before turning to walk up the stairs; I feel a light pull on my arm as I do — I hadn’t even realized he’d been grasping my elbow.


End file.
